To Save A Legion
by doncaster
Summary: The Thousand Sons, is a force on the edge of oblivion. It has teetered on the brink for over ten thousand years. But with threats both new and old rising and with the Legion again poised to tear itself apart, threats to both body and soul are more pressing than ever. In the face of this, Arlek Erelash, Sorcerer of the 15th makes a desperate effort to stop the seemingly inevitable
1. Chapter 1

He could still see them, those perfect white pyramids of glittering marble, edged in polished gold. The most experienced eye could search for days upon their faultless surface, without finding a single join or imperfection. Whilst great crystal structures, grown rather than built, bent and split light with such artistry that their cores became shifting, subtle displays of colour with unbelievable clarity. The skies were of a blue most thought only a painter could create, and her broad streets, lined with sweet scented trees, were filled with happy and contented people. The architecture alone was enough to bring men to a standstill, and even the most arrogant xeno would have been forced to recognise its beauty.

But all of that was as nothing compared to what lay within the nine greatest structures. The eight temple arcologies, and the grandest structure of them all, the great library and the sanctum of the Crimson King. Such knowledge, such a collection of human inquisitiveness and ancient beauty, held a quality well beyond that of mere buildings. He remembered what it was like to poor through those tomes and a strange feeling of wistful contentment came over him, as if the memory was so vivid he was not remembering it, but reliving it. With that came the happiness of those times.

His mind began to skip from one scene to the next, the smiles and laughs of his battle brothers, the sense of fulfilment drawn from earnest work in pursuit of a noble cause. The pride that swelled in his chest when he was brought under the black raven of the Corvidae, and the humility that overcame him when in the presence of his father.

But soon the metallic taste of hot blood filled his mouth, and a faint sound of far off screaming began to rapidly grow in both volume and threat. Forcing his eyes open in an effort to drive away such unpleasant thoughts before they truly manifested he stared out of the magnificent helm of the blue jackal. The minimalist and stylised helmet encased the whole of his head and had a blocky, hard pressed and grim set maw, it's two proud and pointed ears stood erect as if ever attentive, the small traces of simple yellow embellishments in keeping with the motif of his legion seemed to hint at a head dress from the deserts of ancient Terra. From the helms deep, glowing green eyes he surveyed his bridge.

The interior was pristine. A floor of spiralling black and white marble, centring upon his command chair, was polished to a mirror sheen. Whilst the absurdly reinforced walls were coated on the inside by a layer of seemingly ever shifting liquid glass, providing a subtly changing sheen of unsettling clarity and translucent purity. There were few markings or talismans about the place aside from one great symbol emblazoned on the rearmost wall. Which, if viewed from the very fore of the bridge, seemed to hang over the command chair like a great badge of authority. It was a vast flaming serpent, bent in a circle as it ate its own tail. Within that circle was another, this time with four curving protrusions erupting from it at right angles like solar flares, and in between each of those curling tongues shorter and sharper protrusions, like small pyramids. To many it bore the resemblance of a stylised star, an eight pointed one.

The view from the bridge was currently obscured. Every window to the outside world shuttered closed so as to prevent the fragile minds of those within from viewing the raw and untampered truth of what lay outside, the warp. Such obfuscation was necessary when dealing with most mortal psyches. No Imperial vessel would ever venture into the warp without every single view obstructed. A single glimpse into the unfiltered immaterium would drive even hardened inquisitors and psykers mad in but a moment, and that was if they were fortunate. Even with an active Gellar Field a look into the truth of the great ocean allowed the creatures that lived there to look back into you, and sometimes, come inside. Even the revered navigators only viewed the eternal sea through the filter of their mutated and warp blessed eye.

Of course, for him the warp no longer posed any such risk. He had become a master of it long ago, and could readily leave his mortal body to drift among its currents with ease. No longer preyed upon by many of the monsters that dwelt there, but feared by them. However, not all of his crew, despite their affiliations, were so hardened. And so, blinkers to protect eyes not yet ready to see still had to be employed.

In an effort to calm the rising emotions of bitterness and grief swelling within him as his memories edged towards the dark he slipped into the lower enumerations. A technique used less and less by some of his hastier brothers, but he and his more cautious kin knew all too well the folly of leaving them behind. It was such mental discipline that safeguarded their lives from both mortal, and immortal perils. They needed such tools now, more than ever. He felt his emotions subside, as he became almost detached from them. Freed from such deceptive instincts by a mindset of objectivity and rationality. He remained in this state for some time, until events demanded his attention.

"Lord Erelash." Came a harsh, robotic voice that still carried a hint of organic intelligence, but none of its warmth. "We are emerging from the warp" It was the voice of Arelesea, a humanoid mass of machine parts, writhing, serpentine mechadendrites, hissing tubes and manifold artificial arms with an array of tools affixed to each, all wrapped up in a red robe so stained it was almost black. Arlek Erelash had been told this heap of twisted and impossible machinery had once been a raven haired woman, but any trace of femininity, indeed humanity, had long since gone. The symbols on the robes of this creation, which many would have considered profane, marked her out as a member of the Dark Mechnaicum and one of his most senior bridge crew.  
"All hands to battle stations." Ordered Arlek with a clam tone that concealed his secret, anxious anticipation. The order went out along the inhumanly clean corridors of the Shu and all manned their places. Even the bridge itself underwent a flurry of activity as the crew performed their battle checks. Only the two guardians which flanked his command chair did not move. Each was a seven foot tall armoured warrior, encased in a shell of purest blue, trimmed in an abundance of subtle and graceful flourishes of burnished gold. It was clear these men and he were cut from the same cloth as Arlek. The coolant ports on their backpacks rested in the mouths and claws of twisted, golden birds and in places, their armour was striped with a deep yet vibrant yellow. Most distinctive of all were the great panels of their headdresses, again striped in blue and yellow and which added almost another foot to their already looming countenance.

But the most striking thing about them, was their stillness. There was no rise and fall of breath, no looking about the bridge at the movement around them. Not even the subtle and imperceptible shifts of a man standing to attention on a parade ground, which were impossible to detect but somehow signalled to you the man before you was indeed alive. This pair of protectors were as still as statues, and only the unsettling air they projected gave any clue that they were something other than that. Arlek looked at them briefly, it was never a pleasant sight. He knew these men, knew their names and stories. In many places they were the same as his, Aghoru, Prospero, Ark Reach, even Boetia. They had served in all of these places together. Sirax and Hezrah were their names, but these were not men defined by battle, but rather study. Arlek remembered the joy taken by Sirax as he delved into the mysteries of the Raptora cult, even in the early days as an initiate. Whilst Hezrah had taken no end of pleasure in teasing Arlek by using his powers as a member of the Athanaean to keep finishing his sentences. Indeed it was Hezrah that had driven Arlek to so skilfully shield his mind.

Both of these men had souls which shone so brightly, and even though their powers were minor compared to both his own and many other members of the 15th Legion, their humanity shone as bright as any other, and even their faltering steps in the shallows of the great ocean set them leagues apart from the blind legions of mortals. To see them as they were now, empty echoes, with muted and faded souls that barely registered in Arlek's sight, pained him. It was a taunting mockery of what they once were, and a painful reminder of what they had become. The teachings of the cults encouraged a practitioner to divorce himself from his emotions, to supress them and master oneself. But that was in the mastery of the mysteries, the heat of battle and the use of one's powers. To live a life entirely devoid of emotion, was to become no better than these hollow, rubric, shells. This grief, dulled into a gnawing ache by time but no less powerful, was an emotion he needed to feel. But it was more than mere grief, it was guilt. He had helped do this too them, it was an error he had to try and fix. Their presence by his side was an acute reminder of why he was here, what he strove for. And after all that had passed, he could not bring himself to leave another one of his brothers behind.

A strange sensation then ran through Arlek's bones, a slight feeling of both weight and restraint returning to him, shackles to the mundane. He didn't need to be told what Arelesea said next.  
"We have translated back into the Materium." He knew that better than any sensors ever could. With the grinding churns of heavy gears and ancient metals the reinforced panelling which protected the small minds of the crew from the great ocean began to slide back, revealing the void beyond. It's pin pricks of light seemed dull and commonplace compared to the swirling impossibility of the warp. But Arlek had to admit, they had a minimalistic beauty to them. But, this patch of space was utterly unremarkable, no planet, no nearby star, no stela phenomenon or even a gently arcing lump of ice. Why where they here?

"My Lord. The augur arrays detect nothing." Came the almost alarmingly normal and restrained voice of another of his bridge crew. He wore an utterly immaculate deep red jacket, ivory trousers, and polished boots which shone like perfection, with a white sash and white braid on his shoulder clues as to his senior rank, along with a front to back bicorn hat sporting a magnificent blue feather. The hat was new, but the rest of his gear was almost identical to on old Prospero Spire Guard, despite the fact that none of the original cadre had survived… that day. But the badges he wore on his arm and spectacular headdress had changed. Gone was the symbol of Prospero. What remained was the flaming eye of the Lord of change, wrapped in the tail chasing serpent of fire. Many iterations of his legion had done away with these echoes of the old, taking cultists and mortal servants as they were. Even most of his fellow exiles, those most dedicated to undoing the errors of the past, had shed memories of the Spire Guard. But not Arlek. Not all his devotes wore the red and ivory, only the gifted as befitted his old ally's memory. But this man was definitely one of them.

An observer could have been forgiven for believing this officer was untouched by the hand of change, until he turned around. His skin was so pale as to border on the translucent, distinct black veins clearly visible underneath.  
"They will come." Replied Arlek with a calm surety, a cruel smirk starting to spread underneath the impenetrable anonymity of his helm.  
"How can you be sure?" Enquired the officer quite reasonably. But, this was a vessel touched by the Lord of Change, reason was not all it was cracked up to be in his place. As Arlek pointed out in tones which carried a slight hint of amusement.  
"Talodax my friend. Have you learned nothing?" Arlek's quiet confidence in his prediction was nothing new, but it was something that had not been heard for some time. In truth, he could understand Talodax's hesitancy. But Talodax could not see the ebb and flow of the warp, understand it as he did. Those with no eyes could not be blamed for their blindness. But to his credit, Talodax was a man trying to see.

There was little time to discuss the matter further as a quiet bleep tore the crew's attention forward.  
"Vessel translating!" Came Arelesea's harsh and unsettling tones, quite at odds with the elegance of this vessel. Casting his eyes forward Arlek watched with satisfaction as a crackling purple wound in reality opened up, heralding the approach of another vessel. Some may have described their meeting here in the middle of nowhere and so close to one another as a truly unbelievable coincidence. Quite failing to see the truth and insight in their own words. It was unbelievable, it was also untrue. This was far from coincidence. This was design.  
"Ahead three quarters, adjust bearing to pass behind their point of translation."

The flare of his ship's engines felt like barely a ripple here upon the bridge, her excellent mortal construction augmented by sublime, unnatural alteration. But it quite concealed the savage, twisted power which throbbed at the core of the Shu and was even now achieving a rate of acceleration well above her more cumbersome, modern kin. She had once been a Repulsive class grand cruiser, known by a name now wiped from the records, as if to purge her sin from Imperial memory. Her class had always been ill fated, as if chosen by the masters of the immaterium for their sport. If so, at least it showed they had taste. These vessels were fast, tough, manoeuvrable and could sport a truly terrifying array of ordinance. The secrets of their construction long since lost, these were amongst the finest vessels mankind had created during the time before the corpse emperor was confined to his throne on Terra, when the Great Crusade was fresh, and young. But a dark shadow fell over them from their conception. Tales of being lost in the warp were unusually commonplace, and after Horus so nearly freed humanity from the shackles of fear and ignorance, these ships fell to Chaos with alarming speed. Traitor captains, raids to capture them, vessels plucked from the warp, all this and more befell ship after ship.

Arlek remembered with a twisted enjoyment how he took this ship after he was forced to wander the void. The proud, hopeful and expectant look on the second in command's face as he removed his dagger from the Captains back, whilst one half of the bridge crew killed the other, Arlek looking on through eyes that were not his own. Before the greedy, over eager fools turned off the Gellar Fields to let him in. Then, a short while afterwards, the screams as one by one the weak willed cretins realised the sheer magnitude of their error. The eyes rolling in the first mate's head as first he felt the sheer ecstasy and euphoria of the power of the great ocean flowing through him, the pleasure of perception as Arlek fulfilled his side of the deal and poured the warp into the man. Until that look was replaced with the horror of understanding, far too late to turn back. The realisation that he could not control, even conceive of the power he had bargained for. The wet, pained sobs of an agony which broke even your will to scream and the wide eyes of absolute regret, as his body shifted and changed, broken and re-forged to the Master of Fate's will, as a mindless spawn.

Since then the inspired, yet abhorred, minds of the Dark Mechanicum had improved and maintained almost every component, whilst the ruinous powers of Tzeentch gradually re-forged the very heart of the vessel itself. To view her from the outside, she was still a Repulsive, all be it strangely gunned. Her more tapered, elegant and rounded design looked almost moulded rather than forged and welded. Still most certainly human, but with a touch of the xeno to it. Possessed of that distinctive style common amongst the ancient chaos warships. With none of the grotesque, cathedral like opulence of the dogmatic loyalists. Everything was swept back function and hardened design. But even to look at her was hard. Her ethereal blue design, interlaced with unnerving yellow, was difficult to focus on. It was as if she was always viewed through a heat haze at best, but the enveloping cloak of the ruinous powers made onlookers almost question if the ship was really there at all, or quite where it was. Even the hard minds of cold circuits and ancient auguries struggled as space seemed not to quite obey all of the usual laws around the Shu.

As the Shu streamed ahead with a sinister grace their target slowly appeared from the maelstrom. She was not a small ship, but much like the Shu it was notable for such a large vessel to go unescorted. This craft was barely visible at all in the inky murk of the void. A dark, dull grey hull built purely for function. Even the great, gothic structures which littered modern vessels had an oddly subdued tone to them. Had they not witnessed this craft return to the mundane world, the Shu and her crew would have had little idea the vessel were even here without their augur array. And whilst Arlek could sense the ninety five thousand sputtering candles aboard that ship, most of which seemed barely sentient to him now, it was as though something had tried to mute them. Their presence was slightly foggy in his mind.

"We appear to be facing a highly modified Lunar class cruiser. My readings suggest a wide array of unusual components within her hull." Reported Arelesea in a voice that was always a little too loud for comfort. This was not unexpected, the Luna class was the mainstay of the modern Imperial fleet. That one was here was in no way surprising. But what most certainly was a surprise for their prey was the presence of the Shu. Vague and hazy as they were he could see the psychic shade of the crew shift and flare in alarm at the presence of a vessel here, in the middle of nowhere. Arlek took just a brief moment of pride in having caught them here, during a brief retranslation into reality during a long warp voyage. Such things were both necessary and commonplace in the fleets of man. It allowed for any required repairs from the savagery of the warp, and more importantly allowed the navigator to re-establish their bearings and ensure the craft had not drifted too far off of course. But their location was random, and almost always in unpopulated dead space. No one would plan to catch a craft during such a moment, no ambush could be meaningfully prepared, everything about where and when was too unpredictable… unpredictable. Arlek found one of his hands moving to touch the symbol of the raven's head that still sat upon the left side of his breast plate.

But, forcing himself into some of the higher enumerations, things like pride, joy in the battle and the distractions of the irrelevant fell away one by one. Nothing to divert him from being as coldly effective as he could be, a master of both the field and his powers. Not only in skill and focus, but also restraint.  
"Fire the lance at her mid-section, sustain fire." Coming prow on, the majority of the Shu's weapons could not be brought to bear, but they did not need to be. Her star flare lance, a relic from the dark age of technology itself, would have been a terrifying weapon at her creation. But the touch of Tzeenetch had added to it a warping wyrdness that could not be readily explained. As the ventral turret in which she was housed turned the void at her muzzle crackled and bent with potential. Until suddenly the weapon erupted in a shifting blue stream of such intensely focused light it almost appeared tangibly solid, dancing lightning arced off from the beam with an impossible noise which floated through the vacuum of space, possessed of a cadence like cruel laughter.

The first shot struck home before the foe's void shields were properly reengaged. Bypassing the crafts most effective defence against such a weapon and slicing through her armour like a hot knife through butter. The hyper condensed energy boiled through layer after layer of reinforced metal until eventually an eruption of ethereal blue fire plumed out of the side of the ship. But this was a titanic vessel, it would take more than one internal detonation to stop the foe.  
"Turn hard to port." Ordered Arlek, with an even voice quite divorced from the drama of this moment. Even though his eyes were closed as he gave his orders, he could still feel the questioning stare of one of the junior crew, and the absolute confidence of the others aboard the bridge. It was a strange move to make and would give up the advantage of passing by the foe's stern they so nearly had. But this was a vessel run by a traitor astartes, one from the first founding at that. Insubordination was rare, even rarer was to survive it. And so it was that Arlek felt the Shu turn hard left beneath him, this older design significantly more nimble that the lumbering bulwarks now fielded by the Imperium.

No sooner had they turned to the left, than their prey began to cumbersomely turn to starboard. Had Arlek not executed this manoeuvre then the Shu's momentum would have carried him past the Luna cruiser, with ships exchanging broadsides, before his sheer speed kept him tearing forwards, whereupon suddenly his prey would be behind him! But now, despite the venting gas and flaring manoeuvring thrusters which signalled the Imperial ship's futile attempt to undo its mistake against the momentum of a 28 megaton mass mid turn, the Imperial vessel was in an even worse position. It had presented it's rear to the Shu, whilst the Shu's starboard broadside came into position.  
"How did he know?" Asked the crewman who had been silently doubtful moments ago, in incredulous tones.  
"He knows." Arelesea replied in her harsh voice with a hint of reprimand, signalling that this was the end of the conversation. But her words were absolutely true. Even now, as Arlek sat, eyes shut upon his command chair, he knew. He knew his prey would turn to port and try to out endure him in a fire fight. He knew the foe would fail in this if the Shu kept it's distance. He knew the foe's warp drive would fail, he knew their commander would grow desperate, turn to port again, burn his engines hard and try to ram him, he knew the foe would miss. Now, so close to the event these happenings were no longer distinct possibilities. It was an inevitability.

"Broadside and lance, fire." He ordered with a clear, yet dispassionate voice. First to burst out in balefire were the great racks of Hecutor pattern plasma cannons that made up this craft's awe-inspiring broadside. Another relic from the time when man was truly the master of all he surveyed. Each flaming bolt of electric blue plasma, rippling and pulsing like liquid fire which barely held its shape, left a fading trail of droplets in its wake. As the flurry of shots stuck home the Luna's void shields, now active, flickered and buckled in an effort to keep up with the unnervingly accurate barrage. The Shu had over ten thousand years of battle experience, and whilst she may have gone through several generations of her mortal crew, each generation had improved upon the last. The touch of change, the work of the ever innovating minds of the Dark Mechanicum, stolen knowledge, reclaimed parts. The ship had been honed, honed and honed again to match her power with precision. Not only that, but the lessons of countless battles were passed unerringly from one generation to the next, resulting in a crew whose knowledge and experience of void warfare was well beyond that of most craft.

It was not long before the void shield of the foe shattered once more, and orbs of super heated material to rival a sun rammed their way into the rear of the ship, metal boiling away into mist before the plasma even touched it. The lights of the Imperial ships engines began to sputter and fail as vital components were stripped away, but slowly the crafts manoeuvring thrusters began to turn her inexorably to port, with the inevitability of a glacier. Just then, before her void shields could recover the Shu's lance streaked across the void and skewered the craft's mid section once more, half weapon, half surgeon's scalpel. And whilst this did not create the same explosion as before, there could be no doubt the Luna cruiser was taking far more damage than even the robust designs of the modern Imperium had allowed for.

But if humanity had one surprising feature, it was that men of such fragile frames could endure so well. As if to embody this the Imperial vessel gradually completed her turn, the shimmer of voidshields reasserting themselves, and the flare of a scant few engine ports signalling there was life in the warhorse yet. Dull flashes across the foes hull signalled her macro batteries firing, a hail of blindingly fast solid shot, each shell tipped with savage warheads, mass produced upon any number of the Imperium's forge worlds.

Arlek could feel his craft's void shields strain at the effort, as the first two layers peeled away and the third quivered at the strain, whilst other shots tore by and on into the void, there to race on forever until some poor object eventually crossed their path. But the void arrays of a grand cruiser which hailed from Mars itself at the dawn of the crusade, were made of sterner stuff. His shields held, whilst his guns answered the foe's. The battle continued in this vein for some time, each ship maintaining their speed and distance relative to one another. Trading blows, salvo for salvo like a pair of punch drunk boxers who had long ago forgone skill and tactics in favour of sheer endurance. But in such a battle it was the Shu which had a stronger arm, and a tougher jaw. True, her void shields failed from time to time, rocking the ship with blasts powerful enough to level cities. But her armour was holding against those shots which did make it though. Mass manufactured engineering from a declining civilisation were little match for bespoke craftsmanship from a time in man's history when they were surpassed only by their own triumphs in the forgotten dark age of technology. His guns however, had far better luck. Even the absurdly strong hulls of the crude Imperium struggled against his plasma batteries, whilst they fared still worse against the Shu' terrifying lance. As long as the plasma bolts could overwhelm the void shield, the lance would face no credible opposition. And as the battle wore on, not even the floating fortress that was a Luna Class Cruiser, could continue to trade blows with a craft that so readily outgunned it.

It might have been possible, even advisable, for the foe to try and slip away again into the warp. But he knew that would not happen. Arlek had seen the effect his shots would have days ago, he knew that the enemy cruiser's warp engine was cracked and fading, swarmed even now by an army of servitors and disposable crew desperately trying to repair it. So, if it could not run away and it could not out shoot the Shu, the foe only had one option left.

"Enemy craft turning to port!" Declared Talodax  
"Reduce speed to one half in irregular increments. Maintain course and fire. Prepare for emergency turn to port." Ordered Arlek, his eyes still closed, his view into the immaterium and the strands of fate both far more useful, and reliable than the fallible eyes of mortals. Slowly the Imperial cruiser turned, nose on to the Shu, and charged. What few engines the craft had left roared into life, blinding white pillars of fire streaming from her stern as the craft bore down upon Arlek. The damaged ship was almost shaking itself apart in the effort, not helped by the fire from the Shu which was still battering down on her reinforced prow. The Luna class answered with a tight spread of torpedoes which darted ahead of it like dragonflies on the water. Sadly the Shu's irregular deceleration was making it difficult to aim at, for both the torpedoes and the ship itself, resulting in some of the shots tearing past the Shu's prow. Others were intercepted by the craft's many flak turrets, precise, rapid firing auto guns manned by experienced crew, aided by near demonic machine spirits with cruel intelligences. Still, no defence was perfect, and somewhere near the Shu's prow a binding white flash indicated an impact several killotonnes in force. Up here, in the Shu's elevated bridge it did not cause even a tremor, but for those closer to the blast it would have been a raging inferno of deafening noise and twisted metal.

"Minor hull breach reported near the fore. No combat functions effected. Repair crews dispatched." Came the inhumanly matter of fact tone of Arelesea. Arlek for his part, remained silent, letting his plan unfold and knowing such damage was well within the power of the Shu's crew to manage.  
"Enemy ship closing!" Reported the much less calm tones of that same crewman who had been confused by Arlek's prescience. "20 seconds to impact, 15, 10, all hands brace for impact!" And then, nothing. No earth shattering explosion, no burst of noise and confusion, not even a tremor. Instead, those in the prow observation posts would have seen the enemy craft pass by, so close as that each and every baroque embellishment on the Imperial craft's hull could be made out in pain staking detail. Each hooded angle, leering gargoyle and vaunted archway were all crystal clear as 28 megatonnes of reinforced metal hurtled by so close as to almost chip the paint. Intermeshing void shields erupted in a bleeding hail of myriad colours, a display of immense beauty in this maelstrom of violence. Only the Shu's odd deceleration had saved them from an impact.  
"Emergency turn to port!" Declared Arlek with a tiny iota of urgency creeping into his voice. His guns kept firing as the Shu executed it's turn, swiftly entering into a stern chase with the severely damaged Imperial ship. From here, whilst he could not bring his full firepower to bear, he could stay on the Luna's tail and whilst he could still deploy his torpedoes and lance, the Luna had very little to fire back with. Though, after a few more glancing strikes from his lance, it became clear Arlek would not need his torpedoes. No sooner had the battered Luna passed by than her engines began to sputter and fade, at last giving up under the immense pressure they had been put under, a task that would have been demanding even when fully functional. Continuing on nothing but momentum the Luna class cruiser could do little more to evade the Shu.

Slowly Arlek began to open his eyes, the dancing vibrancy of the immaterium fading into the mundane world of the normal. Even this regal bridge of minimalistic beauty seemed dull by comparison.  
"Come alongside the foe, tether and commence boarding." He ordered, watching with an even and calm air. It did not take long for the Shu to catch up with the stricken cruiser, their hulls so close that broadside ordinance would either not have long enough to arm in the case of the Imperials, or be just as destructive to the person who fired it as the target in the case of the Shu. Before the tethers were even fired to pin the prey in place, a hail of assault boats tore from the underside of the Shu. She was not a designated carrier vessel and so the display was not as awe inspiring as it may have been with some other craft. But it was enough. Moment's from now members of the Shu's crew would be fighting tooth and nail through the bent and broken corridors of their foe's torn ship. The defenders would likely have already taken significant casualties, and be disorganised. But, that would not make things easy. Those tight, narrow corridors stretching on for miles upon miles made for lethal charnel houses.

Rising slowly from his command chair with the slightly unsettling weight of a tree uprooting itself and walking across the earth, Arlek ordered.  
"Talodax, you have the bridge. Ensure brother Rhydel takes his rubricae to the power plant and prevents any attempt at a self destruct. He will then repair the nearby warp drive. I will go across and make for the bridge."  
"Yes My Lord." Talodax replied, relaying the necessary orders, whilst Arlek turned to leave. The sound of the titanic weight of his power armour thumping against the deck was deeply incongruous with the ease with which he seemed to move. Almost as though it was not there. Without so much as a gesture of command his two flanking guards followed him, their footsteps all falling in perfect synchronicity. The various passageways and chambers of the Shu were all much like her bridge, elegant, yet understated, possessed of strange and beautiful craftsmanship, yet not gaudy or over embellished. Simple marble, subtly shimmering walls of shifting silver and restrained golden trim all highlighted by an otherworldly standard of cleanliness and shine. The odd tranquillity of it was quite at odds with the stalking presence of Arlek, his simple yet elegant deep red cape billowing out behind him, his thunderous footfall echoing down unnaturally still hallways.

It took him some time to reach the nearest tether, these ships were kilometres long after all, and fighting aboard the Imperial craft was already well underway. It would have been possible for him to open a tear in the warp and step through to his destination, as easily as others stepped through a door. But he remembered the teachings of his old master, and dear friend. Not to use one's powers lightly or frivolously, and to always remember how to do things without them. That advice had saved his skin and his soul more than once, and he was not about to ignore them for the sake of a walk. When he arrived at the nearest of the tube, which also served as umbilical's between the two craft, he was met with a small procession of twisted servitors, silent save for the grinding of gears. They were moving back and forth down the pipe between the craft, carrying boxes of ammunition one way, wounded soldiers back the other. Each automaton seemed utterly oblivious to the world around him, save for what bore direct relevance to their task, and Arlek saw little point in disturbing them. The men being returned were largely run of the mill cultists, similar in appearance to human freebooters or hive gangers, though Arlek insisted on a certain degree of restraint in their dress. Such men were of little concern to him, few would ever ascend to note and the forces of the warp were never short of volunteers. But occasionally, a man in the pristine red of the Spire Guard would be carried back, and though Arlek was well used to the carnage of battle he never relished seeing these reminders of home being torn asunder. These were a better class of man as well, these people might actually make something of themselves. But as Arlek began stalking down the umbilical one type of soldier was noticeable for its absence. None of his brothers were being returned, but this was exactly what he had come to expect. Given time even an unremarkable astartes could take a ship staffed with mere mortals, and his brothers were far from unremarkable. It was only their small numbers that necessitated dependence on, lesser men.

When Arlek entered the stricken Luna cruiser, the scene could not have been more different than the one he left behind. The cold corridors of dull metal and hanging pipes that marked the innards of an Imperial ship, were now scorched black by fire, twisted and bent by titanic stresses, choked in places by smoke, obscured by venting gases in others. It was all in stark contrast to the order and beauty he had left behind. Inquisitorial symbols, the great I with a skull standing proud at it's center, were dotted around with alarming frequency, leaving no doubt as to who owned this craft. It was not long until a man in the uniform of a Spire Guard, wearing an officer's silver helmet with flowing white horsehair and a gas mask, ran up to him.  
"Lord Erelash, it is an honour." But Arlek had little time for pleasantries.  
"Is the generator secure?" He pressed whilst not even looking at the officer, instead he was looking over him, his gaze seemingly sweeping over some grand field only he could see.  
"Yes my Lord. Legionnaire Rhydel moved with great speed."  
"And the bridge?"  
"Resistance remains my Lord, we are…" But Arlek did not wait for the man to finish his sentence, instead turning on his heel and moving off towards the bridge as soon as he heard there was work still to be done. The Officer tried to keep pace with Arlek, but he almost had to jog to match the astarte's stride. To make matters worse he was practically being bulldozed with every step by Arlek's two rubricae guards. "My Lord, the defenders of this vessel have some quite unusual effects."  
"Be more specific Major." He asked calmly but without breaking his stride.  
"My Lord, Legionnaire Orisian reported difficulties with his rubricae as he drew closer to the bridge. They still fought with all of their usual skill, but started not to respond to orders." A low growl of dissatisfaction began to escape Arlek's jackal helm, cut short as he reminded himself of the disciplines of the enumerations. When he spoke, he did so with a dispassionate evenness, though his words alone betrayed his annoyance.  
"There was a reason why I had only ordered my brothers to the engineering section."  
"My Lord, I believe he…"  
"Do not make arguments for him." Cut across Arlek in clinical tones. "He is one of my brothers and as such will answer directly to me. You need not concern yourself further with his folly Major. Return to your position, and ensure our wounded receive treatment."

With a hurried affirmation the Major returned to his duties. Run of the mill cultists meant little, but Arlek wanted the Spire Guard to survive if they could. Besides, leaving men to die did terrible damage to their morale, and he needed them to be in good spirits to perform to his expectations. But there was another reason why he wanted the Major back at his post, as soon as the man was out of sight, Arlek began running. Most thought an astartes to only be capable of a light, sluggish jog. Such a pace would have kept up with most unaltered humans and their bulky armour certainly gave that impression. But such beliefs were only held by men who had never actually seen them. An astartes, due to the black carapace, moved in his armour as easily as he did his own skin, indeed the great powers that drove such devices only amplified their speed, dexterity and grace. But it also accentuated their raw power. As such, Arlek and his escorts, running at full sprint, resembled a trio of charging rhinos, and just as devastating to anything that stood in front of them.

Had it not been for his emotional restraint, Arlek would have been worried. As it was, his clinical attachment allowed him a dispassionate realisation of the risks. But genuine distress, or cold calculation, the result was still the same. Run. His fettered perception of the souls aboard, the inquisitorial symbols, rubricae falling out of command. Put together, they indicated the presence of one of the few things that could actually cause some risk to his fellow brothers. And he could not tolerate that. As he ran Arlek paid little mind to the men and bodies he passed, a few scattered crew tried to resist him, but their shots deflected harmlessly off of his armour, whilst the retaliatory strikes of his escorts invariably detonated the foe in a hail of torn limbs and steaming innards. Their jolting pace seemingly having no impact on their accuracy.

Drawing closer to the bridge Arlek felt his head slowly numb, his sense of the world beyond and of the great ocean weakened by degrees as he kept moving, it was as he suspected. Turning he looked to his two escorts.  
"Sirax, Hezrah. Remain here and await my return. Draw no closer." Normally Arlek would not have spoken, members of the legion had long since stopped needing verbal commands. A simple thought could convey a wealth of information and subtlety in a moment. But with the immaterium waning thin here he resorted to words as a precaution. Pressing onwards, alone, Arlek began to suffer these sinister effects even more acutely, it was as if a whole sense was being stripped from him. For a psyker to lose his feeling for the warp was like a normal man losing his eyes. He could barely remember a time when he had not been able to feel the great ocean, even before he knew what it was. Many a sorcerer would have turned back, but not Arlek. It was at times like these that he was grateful for his teacher's cautions about dependency upon the warp.

Mere meters from the bridge entrance he found Orisian trying to stir his soldiers into action. But they all just stood there, motionless. The junior sorcerer was dressed very similarly to the squad he commanded, the same blue armour with ornate golden embellishments and yellow bands. But unlike those he led, he held a staff wrapped in green fire in one hand, whilst ornamental red cloth hung from his waste and in two hanging bands from his chest.  
"Are all of your brothers accounted for Orisian?" Enquired Arlek in less than pleased tones, his runes and elaborate armour marking his clear superiority. Orisian turned with a startled snap, surprised Arlek had drawn so close.  
"My Lord Erelash. Yes, all brothers are safe. But still."  
"That is not surprising Orisian. Why did you come this far?"  
"With Rhydel taking the core I hoped I could secure the bridge for you my Lord." Despite their unmoving helms, any man could feel the sorcerer's uncertainty, and Arlek's condemnation.  
"Has your enthusiasm outgrown both your caution and your memory brother Orisian?"  
"My Lord?" Enquired Orisian, hesitantly.  
"Do it not occur to you that there was a reason why I had ordered no brothers to the bridge? And even as you drew near did you not remember this feeling, what it entails?" His brother's silence told Arlek all he needed to know. "Then you shall be reminded. Leave our brothers here, they can still defend themselves should a threat arrive. But you shall come with me Aspirant." The biting reference to a junior rank from long ago was not a coincidence.

Without waiting for further interruption Arlek continued his determined march to the bridge, no longer at a run now that he knew his brothers were safe. Instead he strode down the last few broken and bleeding corridors, infernal bolt pistol raised, plucking away those last crew who resisted him with a mechanical accuracy. When he arrived at the vast double doors to the bridge, it was like standing at the entrance of a cathedral. Elegantly crafted depictions of Imperial saints driving away the hordes of Chaos dominated her surface with magnificent artistry. But Arlek was unmoved by such delusional depictions, instead all he saw was a thick slab of metal between him and where he needed to be. Normally a flick of the wrist would turn this barrier into little more than mist and molten metal. But he knew his powers would not answer him. Instead he moved to what looked like some of the hinges on the vast door, reaching to his belt and withdrawing a few melta grenades. It took him a few moments to methodically plant the charges and wire them up to a single detonator, but from the looks of it Arlek seemed to remember his astartes training from before his psychic powers manifested. Taking shelter behind an ostentatious pillar Arlek hit the switch, instantly eliciting a violent yet low blast that unsettled the stomach more than it pierced the ears.

Striding back up to the door he could see it shifting as it's joints melted away into glowing slurry. He drew what had once been his ancient power sword, forged for his hand upon Mars itself. But now the blade was seemingly alive with blue fire, the metal still beneath but was now encased in a far deadlier substance. A keen eye could spy shifting runes from a language that defied translation, glowing beneath the fire. Standing toe to toe with the great edifice he summoned his strength and struck the pommel of his blade against the door three times, the cavernous echoes of his dreadful knock resounding down the bent halls of this crippled ship. In answer to his demand to enter the great doors fell back with an impossible slowness, before striking the ground like a mistuned bell.

The bridge crew were confronted with Lord Erelash, the Blue Jackal, Sorcerer of the 15th Legion, the Thousand Sons. His grim set helm stared at them with eyes that glowed with a green so vivid yet so unnerving as to seem from another world. Staring back at Arlek Erelash were a collection of lesser crew, little more than maggots in his sight. But, amongst them stood a proud man in a uniform that bore some resemblance to that of the Imperial Navy, but in all the wrong colours. From his badges and from the haughty yet indignant look upon his face, this man was the Captain. With him was a hard looking rat of a man, all bitterness and cunning, wearing the finest carapace armour the Imperium could provide, yet grey and unadorned, save for the great inquisitorial seal upon his chest. It was not difficult to tell who he was.

But they were insignificant, far from the real threat. No, the real threat were the two golden clad women in front of him. He recognised that ancient, ornate armour, he had seen it when it was young. Their red cloaks and fine furs at their shoulder, the single standing plume of impossible long hair erupting from their head, and the mark upon their brow. Sisters of silence. Both stood like knights of old, swords pointed down to the ground, hands gently folded upon the pommels. It was as he had suspected, and though a Nul Maiden was not a foe to be underestimated Arlek still gave a contemptuous snort of derision from under his great helm. He knew it was pointless to taunt a sister of silence, they would never respond and their minds were too disciplined to slip into rage of wild action. Arlek might even have admired them, had he not hated them.

But for now, he simply refocused his grip upon the higher enumerations and ordered.  
"Orisian. Deal with the one on the left. I shall destroy the one on the right." Without waiting for a response or further order Arlek snapped up his bolt pistol and squeezed the trigger. More normally he knew where every target would be before he fired, and the path each hostile round would take as well. But now, he was relying on meta human eyes, advanced technologies and millennia of battlefield experience. As it turned out, at first, the results were much the same. Two rounds smashed into the chest of the first sister as she tore forward, but her armour stood the test. Doubtless the sheer conclusive force had broken bones and bruised or ruptured her organs, but the sister charged on. Confronted with such a creature Arlek was cut off from the warp, as was his brother. The sisters of silence were known for their natural ability to calm all psyker and wyrd powers in their presence due to a quirk of their birth. To a sorcerer, they were an anathema and far more effective than the mental interferences of another psyker. Them, he could resist. But these abominations seemed to kill they very warp around them.

But as immune as they were to the perils of the warp, they were still human. Blades clashed as the sister battled the son. Her swift yet savage strikes spoke of years of training in duelling halls and bitter experience. Arlek, for his part, missed his ability to gaze both into the immediate future and the mind of a foe to know where each blow would land, parrying with such keen foresight and predatory calculation as to finish many a battle in a single stroke. But now he was fighting like a mortal. His movements were tight, controlled and cautious, leaving little in the way of openings, but taking few chances. With his grip upon the enumerations Arlek was all too aware of his brother, Orisian, battling against his own devoted swordswoman, his stance more aggressive, but on occasion leaving dangerous openings. One thing at a time…

An ethereal trail of blue flame followed the path or Arlek's blade but it seemed to do little to confuse or daze either combatant. His unblinking eyes of baleful green bore their way through the fire like the gaze of a hungry predator, well concealing the restraint and calculation beneath. Their battle continued, with the sister dancing and swirling around Arlek in a hail of steel, water flowing around a rock, unable to shift it or erode it. Arlek for his part, stood, watching, waiting, until suddenly he saw it. A rare repetition in the sister's strikes, a predictable position he could force open. Planting his blade in the gap with the speed of a viper the maiden's sword ricocheted off of his with a discordant clang. With the strength of an astartes he took advantage of her stall to force her blade up high. It would have been a triviality for him to bring the sword back down, cleaving her head from her shoulders with a single stroke. But such a death was too dignified for one of her kind. His offhand, still holding his pistol, rapidly came up and planted three rounds into her stomach. The first bent the armour and crushed what lay beneath. The other two breached the tempered metal and detonated within her, shredding organs and burning fat with a searing heat. The maiden fell back, a look of total surprise in her eyes as her last seconds of life drifted away. Arlek wondered if she would use her last moment to break her vows, calling out to the Emperor that would not answer her. But to his dissatisfaction, she retained her dignity to the end, not even sighing, as she passed away.

With his opponent fallen her turned to face his brother, in time to witness the sister's blade rake across his torso, cutting into ancient armour with brutal efficiency. An echoing grunt of pain escaped Orisian's helm as he staggered back, clumsily holding his staff out in front of him protectively as he tried to regain his footing. He surely would have fallen had Arlek not brought his bolt pistol to bear once more, it's muzzle shaped like the naked skull of a carrion bird, erupting just as the sister poised to strike. The shots hit hard, knocking the woman's body sideways, twisting it awkwardly as it span with the impact in a way no human was ever supposed to shift. The final shot sent what was already a corpse limply into the wall with an underwhelming thud. Wasting little time Arlek's turned his eyes with a glacial menace towards the remaining crew. He could feel the warp returning in all its glorious vibrancy. Takin a moment to reflect on the two dead sisters he mused to himself that, a life time of combat was nothing as compared to a hundred lifetimes.

He could feel his brother's pain as keenly as he would have felt his own, but the cold discipline of the enumerations prevented his emotions from overwhelming him. Orisian would live, that was all that mattered. The souls of the Rubricae outside touched his mind as well, dull, but painfully familiar.  
"Kill all bar the Inquisitor." He commanded with a thought, far swifter than any tongue. Forked lightning erupted from Orisian's hand, as he bent the powers of the great ocean to fry and boil flesh. Thundering feet came down the corridor as his silent brothers returned to the fray, cutting down bridge crew with unnervingly accurate bolter fire, like a farmer cuts down wheat. Arlek for his part, simply raised a hand and froze the Inquisitor where he stood, his body ridged like a statue, forced to gaze unblinkingly at the slow approach of an ancient sorcerer.

As the lost body fell Arlek came beside his prey, with almost theatrical timing. He allowed the Inquisitor a fraction of control, loosening the psychic grip upon his mouth and permitting the hard face shrew to spit his defiance.  
"I will tell you nothing traitor!" He barked. But Arlek simply raised a calm hand, placing the cold ceramite upon the Inquisitors head.  
"How appropriate." He said with a detached calm that seemed only to accentuate his spite. "That the last words from an Inquisitor's mouth, are a lie." Suddenly the man twisted horrifically under Arlek's palm, his mouth torn open in a scream so loud it defied mortal ears but echoed clearly in the warp. More normally Arlek could have achieved his goal with a simple thought. But this man had spent his life reinforcing his mental discipline. As such, the barrier to his thoughts presented a minor obstacle, rather than no obstacle at all, and what Arlek wanted would be buried deep. As the man bent and warped, bone could be heard snapping as his muscles rent him out of shape with a strength they could never naturally possess. The skin withered and aged, a century of life passing each moment, eyes burning from his skull in a phosphoric white blaze. By the time Arlek released him, and allowed the corpse to strike the ground, the Inquisitor was little more than burned skin wrapped tight over twisted bone.

Meanwhile, in Arlek's mind, a lifetime's worth of memory, thought and feeling flashed by in a second. A miserable pile of secrets that were thought important by fools, irrelevant faces and names. Then he found the memory, the box, the protections that held it, the keys of thought needed to turn the locks. Without a word of explanation Arlek strode towards the ready room at the rear of the bridge. Projecting orders to his kin though their minds.  
"The navigator is in his sanctum above. Kill him. Lower the Gellar Fields. Rhydel will have the warp drive functional by now, prepare it. Random coordinates. This ship shall be lost in the ocean." He did not want this vessel discovered with the obvious signs of battle. Better to let the foe think it lost in the warp than beaten and boarded. If he was lucky, his adversaries would think the cargo lost.

As he entered the code plucked from the Inquisitor's mind the sound of a single shot rang out behind him, there ended the navigator. A pity, their kind had a special relationship with the warp, but Arlek did not have time to take captives. The room he entered was one of charts and wealth, antique sabres hung on the walls like trophies, ancient and hopelessly inaccurate maps from long dead scribes littered the central table, ancestral paintings and gaudy displays of opulence hung about the place. A dozen displays of pointless vanity and ego. But towards the rear, an unremarkable cabinet was secured by a most remarkable lock. Even with the codes and combinations it took Arlek sometime to slowly open her up, only to reveal a single item inside. An ordinary, brown, wooden box. But such mundanity was a façade, even before his fingers had touched it they felt the crackle of potential from the wards and seals within. Seizing the box Arlek turned abruptly towards the bridge and began striding earnestly back to the Shu. A harsh, mechanical voice called out over the bridges vox system as he did so.  
"Warning. Override codes altered. Warning warp entry process commenced. Short range blind jump process. Warning. Coordinates not present. Navigator not present. Gellar Fields disabled. Manual delay input. Jump in forty minutes." Forty minutes was cutting it short, not for him but for the rest of the boarding crew who Arlek could feel suddenly taking flight and pouring back towards the Shu with desperate haste.

Marching back through the halls he had carved through minutes ago brother Orisian jogged up to Arlek's side, the advanced healing agents of his post human body having sealed the wound, though his armour still bore the marks.  
"You leave our comrades little time brother." Observed Arlek, only for a surprisingly cocksure response from a man who mere minutes ago had tasted a blade.  
"Enough time my Lord. They need no more." A derisive snort echoed out though Arlek's peculiar helm.  
"I hope you are right, for your sake brother." There passed between them a few moments of oddly heavy silence until Orisian asked the obvious, in almost hesitant tones.  
"What is in the box my Lord?" Arlek chuckled slightly, purely within his own mind. The most important questions were often so simple. And so rarely answered. But he would give his brother the truth, after a fashion.  
"The future Orisian." Before finishing the sentence in his own mind. "Or at least the beginning of it, I hope."


	2. Chapter 2

Arlek sat upon an elegantly crafted chair of polished marble, it's swirling patterns and comfortable angles had been carved from a single rock to hold the enlarged frame of an astartes. In front of him was a table of similar design upon which sat the mundane brown box. But the sorcerer seemed to be ignoring it for now. Instead, with his helmet removed, he was casting his strange eyes about the place. For the moment, they seemed to be a gentle violet in colour. But a few hundred years after the burning of his home, he had developed a trait shared by his father, perhaps genetic predisposition blended with a similar involvement in the arcane. Just as with the Crimson King, the colour of his eyes could change in a moment, often shifting with his moods or taking on inhuman vibrancies. He was looking at the russet coloured leaves on trees that seemed to have been made of driftwood and which had grown, less like plants, and more like abstract statues. Around his armoured feet stood tall blades of strange grass, green when still, but faintly glowing a translucent red when disturbed even by a breeze. A few shrubs to match the trees littered the ground at aesthetically appropriate junctures, whilst the faint sound of running water hinted at a fountain or stream somewhere out of sight. Above hung a beautiful blue sky, the undersides of snow white clouds beginning to burn red as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. It was enough to make Arlek almost believe it was real, almost.

But as great as the sky was, and the rolling planes which stretched off in every direction, they were nothing but a mechanical illusion. Oh the plants were real, the delicate chirping of rare birds was genuine. But in truth, this place stretched for no more than 30 meters in any direction. The rest was a well executed fake on a flat wall. Even the sky was nothing but hard deck. Still, Arlek was determined to escape into this brief moment. The corner of his eye just caught the sight of a statue which seemed oddly incongruous given the natural scenes surrounding it. It was of a golden lion rearing defiantly, and despite how out of place it was all of the plants near it seemed to be organised to accentuate the monument. It was an exact replica of a statue from the street of a thousand lions on Prospero. Looking at it Arlek dearly wished that he had been able to recover the original. It was the very same lion that the locals superstitiously believed brought good fortune. It was the last lion to stand amidst the devastation. And despite the rationality of the Thousand Sons and his brother's contempt for unfounded beliefs, it was the statue Arlek had witnessed brother Ahriman beseech for luck in the final hour.

The thought caused an involuntary smile to spread across his slightly gaunt face, one that was both heartfelt and simultaneously sorrowful. Many of his kin were seen now as nothing but cold monsters. Worlds quaked at their names, even the Black Legion took pause at the mention of Ahzek Ahriman. But they would not say such things if they could have seen that day. The way brother Ahzek embraced Hathor Maat at the foot of the lion. The way Ahzek had embraced him… A lion was appropriate thought Arlek, such noble dedication and even love for its family, and such a terror to those that would harm them.

But Arlek could not linger in the past forever, wresting his mind from such recollections he refocused his attention on the box in front of him. The Inquisitor had not been as well informed as Arlek had believed, or hoped. Even the Inquisitor himself did not understand the fact that his knowledge was inadequate, he knew only enough to fool him. Clearly this container was not supposed to be opened until it reached its destination if ever. Her mundane locks were not the true challenge. Whilst they were of fine construction all material things had a certain simplicity to them, and Arelesea's nimble mechadentrites had been able to skilfully turn locks without keys, and bypass circuitry without codes. But subtle shifts the immaterium held this box as shut as any padlock could. Some the Inquisitor knew how to bypass, but there were far more formidable ones hidden beneath them. These wards seemed to possess an intelligence all of their own, fighting, changing, resisting. This box did not want to be opened and it was pushing back with skill. To Arlek it felt less like the psychic examination of an object, but more like a battle, trying to force himself into the mind of a fellow psyker and turn it to his will. Not just any practitioner of the wyrd either, but one of some skill. It would take a true adept to work their way past this, raw power would be wasted. An ocean, or a stream, it made no difference here. What mattered instead, was speed, precision, control and ingenuity. Fortunately, these were exactly the traits instilled by the Thousand Sons over ten thousand years ago, and doubly so in the cult of the Corvidae.

But as Arlek resumed picking apart these last defences one by one, even he was forced to approach it with an unusual degree of caution and consideration, as the infernal puzzle changed itself three times for every move he made. But in time, through patience and discipline, Arlek would feel the click of the last ward falling away. His eyes grew wide and bright in a rare moment of excited anticipation as he slowly opened the box. Only for his brow to almost immediately furrow in confusion at what he found. A single, large, oval gem. Shaped like a tear it's surface was impossibly smooth, and it's deep red colouring seemed to possess a gently swirling cloud of some darker colour within it. More importantly, Arlek could sense a distinct psychic presence within, for want of a better word, a soul. From its stirrings the mind within was agitated about something, but it seemed unaware of Arlek, though whether that was because the creature was blinded to the outside world or Arlek's mental defences he could not tell.

This was not what Arlek had been expecting, he had anticipated a great tome or grimoire, containing some of the secrets he longed for, the visions and whispers of fate had shown him after much cajoling that great and vital knowledge would lie within this box, not some gem. But it did not take him long to realise that it was not the strands of fate that had misled him, it was himself, though his mundane interpretation and all too human expectations. Not all knowledge lay in dusty parchment or cold data slates, and the knowledge he sought was distinctly xenos, it only made sense for him to suspend human expectations. After this admission, and opening his mind to the possibilities that entailed, it took him just the beat of one of his hearts to realise what he had, a spirit stone. But instinct told him this was no normal spirit stone, he could claim one of those any time he wished, plucking it from the chest of slain foe. His prying into the future would not have led him to this particular soul if it was not in some way important. Arlek had been looking for the secrets of the spirit stones, and their strange reanimation in bodies of wraithbone in the belief, or rather hope, that such technologies and rites would mark the first step in the revival of his legion.

So why was this stone so valuable? No clues were present in the box, the gem bore no inscriptions nor was it set in some useful frame. He was given no useful clue as to context or origin beyond the simplest realisation of what this thing was. There was only one further avenue of exploration left open to him, as impulsive as it seemed. He had to go inside, find some way to commune with what lay within. With a thought he summoned his two ever silent companions, their armoured frames striding in from the corridor outside, to flank him protectively and stand guard whilst his mind vacated his body. Arlek, for his part, slipped slowly into a gentle, meditative trance. Millenia of training and experience meant that in normal circumstances he could invade the minds of many others with ease. But this was different, he had never crossed into a spirit stone before, nor had he interacted with the minds of the Eldar dead, the living yes, but not the dead. Most concerning of all, was the idea that me may not be able to escape once inside. These devices were designed to thwart a god, what dangers might they pose to a meta human? As such Arlek proceeded with extreme caution, tracing runes upon the earth about him with his finger, which would light up in etheric green fire as he chanted words designed to twist reality and strengthen the tether to his mortal body, allowing it to snap him back should something go wrong.

Even then he proceeded slowly and with trepidation, half sliding into the stone, half teasing the soul within towards him. Eventually Arlek felt the sense of lightness and freedom that came with leaving his frame of flesh and bone, and the world around him changed into a broken and out of focus vision of home half remembered by a sleeping mind. Surrounding him with a terrifying totality was an infinite blackness, yet somehow there was a sense of crushing claustrophobia to it. A little way ahead was an elegant fireplace, fashioned in the smooth minimalistic curves of the Eldar, a monochromatic fire flickered silently within. About the place were other scattered items of furniture and decoration, all floating on an invisible floor. Whichever mind called this place home had summoned only the important or familiar. A home without walls, stripped to its barest essence.

There were no signs of life, and Arlek took a moment to glance down and check himself. An advantage of walking free from your mortal shell, was that a disciplined mind could appear howsoever they wanted to appear. Whilst Arlek may have more usually chosen to manifest as he did in life, in this place he was wearing the skin of an Eldar. It was a convincing facsimile, and the attention to detail Arlek had taken was one of the reasons he was so slow to arrive here. He had studied that secretive race to quite some extent over the years, the Thousand Sons craved knowledge and understanding above almost all else, an ancient and learned species such as the Eldar would naturally draw their attention. Even before they truly knew of the Eldar race, when they had first encountered the ruins of their civilisation upon Aghoru, the echoes of their empire and the legends passed down by the human inhabitants of the world had stoked the legion's curiosity.

Since then the Legion had encountered them time and again, learning more with every meeting. Arlek, and brothers like him, had taken what knowledge they could of the Eldar from every possible source, be it the creatures themselves, other people's attempts to study them, notes taken by the ordo xenos, ancient artefacts and their own research. Through those studies Arlek had learned both the written and spoken language of the Eldar quite thoroughly, but now as he stood here in this alien echo he was plagued by a sudden doubt that his knowledge might perhaps not be quite enough for what he had planned. He bent the shape and language of his thoughts to match, concealing those parts of his mind that were human, allowing crafted hints of a xenos mind to bleed through, all rigidly guarded by hardened mental defences, at least the Thousand Sons and Eldar had that in common.

Taking his first step forward Arlek was suddenly aware of a disturbance from a high-backed chair which sat, facing the fire a, slightly started looking man rose up and turned to face Arlek with a look of both surprise and confusion.  
"Farseer!" It exclaimed, recognising the robes of a Farseer of Ulthwe that Arlek had clothed himself in. This was not some random or even egotistical choice, it was the easiest and most convincing cover. After all, only powerful seers could have entered this place and Arlek was closer to a Farseer than any other type of person he could have chosen to mask himself as, making it easier to bluff. Furthermore, he had chosen Ulthwe due to their high prevalence of seers, meaning it was more likely to encounter one from that craft world than any other, and more forgivable not to recognise them. Still, he was under no illusion, he knew this would be a difficult mask to wear.

For his part Arlek quickly surveyed the man standing before him, the vibrant yellow and deep blue of his robes easily picked him out as a member of the Iyanden craft world. How fitting that a ghost should be from that broken place. The marks upon his robes and the shape of the man's mind as Arlek's consciousness brushed against it told him of the path this man walked. Now things were starting to make sense.  
"Spiritseer" Replied Arlek in comforting tones, adopting a subtle pose to match his voice, communicating through the nuanced gestures of the Eldar race. "Do not be alarmed, I am heartened to find you undamaged, though saddened you must be here at all." Even in his mortal body he had taught his tongue and throat to make the strange, ethereal sounds of an Eldar. But here it was effortless, he spoke as easily as he thought.

But the man before Arlek still seemed wary.  
"Why have you come here Farseer? If you had need to talk to me why enter this place? Why not commune through the warithbone or summon back my spirt to the world if only briefly?" These were good questions, and the last one about returning the man's spirit was a surprise. It was clear there were things Arlek did not know, but he did not allow this to surface. Instead he maintained his act and improvised.  
"We have no constructs in which to place you, and no bonesinger with experience making one. As for returning your spirit I fear I have not walked far enough down the path for that. But it was vital I check the integrity of your spirit." Arlek was keen to move off of the subject of how he was here, clearly he had done something deeply unusual and he did not want this man to dwell upon it.  
"But to enter into a place like this…"  
"Unorthodox, I know." Interrupted Arlek. "I have been forced to improvise." That much at least was true.  
"But why?" Pressed the spirtseer, still confused. "You said it was vital that you check my soul, what has happened?" Again, Arlek was compelled to think quickly, but at least now he was on easier ground.  
"As I cast the stones I saw what might become of you. I was not looking for you, but the skiens brought you to me anyway. Your soul was about to fall into the hands of she who thirsts. Only my intervention could prevent it. You are fortunate I was away from the craftworld and close at hand." But Arlek's words just made the seer furrow his brow further and take a step back, shaking his head in disbelief and confusion.  
"No, no, that does not make any sense." By now Arlek was tempted to delve into the mind of this man, to craft a story that would be acceptable. But he did not want to risk alerting a fellow psyker to the intrusion, one, who by the taste of him on the air, had been powerful in life. Nor did he want to forcibly rip the secret's from the Eldar's mind. He had stolen the thoughts of Eldar before, but never a dead one, he did not know what complications might arise and he was unwilling to risk the resource. "My last memories are not demons or corrupted mon-keigh. They are of Druchii setting upon our mission." His face began to fall at the recollection, wearing the dazed stare of a man reliving a nightmare, the air itself seemed to grow sharp and silently discordant, like an out of tune violin playing beyond the range of hearing.

Seizing the initiative, and not allowing doubts to fester Arlek pressed on.  
"That may be, I do not know. But if our dark brothers did fall upon you they must have abandoned or lost you. I found you in the midst of cultists and daemons of our nemesis. They would certainly pursue the Druchii down if they had the chance, to recover your soul and please that abomination." There were a few moments of silence before the spirtseer's posture relaxed, moving away from one of suspicion and into acceptance, silently echoed by Arlek with one of sombre thanks.  
"What of my comrades, our mission?" The shade asked, brotherly concern edging into his voice.  
"I do not know." Confessed Arlek. "You are all that I could recover, and I was not sure even you were whole until I entered this place." Now the man's face was growing almost afraid, but not for himself. Silently Arlek made the graceful gestures for sympathy and calm, stepping forward as if to comfort the man on the edge of panic.  
"The mission has to be completed!" He insisted. Arlek wanted to press hard, but there was no need to seem to inquisitive or overeager, this was a secret the man wanted to tell, and without delay.  
"We can return you to your craftworld" Arlek said with well feigned innocence. "Your kin can continue from there."  
"There is no time!" Snapped the spirtseer, before he hurriedly remember his place. "My apologies Farseer, for my rudeness. But we must be swift. My recollections of time are, difficult to grasp. But our task was important. If we are anywhere close to your craftworld it would be best if we continued on. I do not know if others were sent to complete my task but I do not wish to rely on that."

Unexpectedly the spirtseer entered into a position of supplicant and near desperation, had he been a human the man would have been upon his knees in front of Arlek.  
"Please, Farseer. It is not my place to ask this of you. You are a Farseer, and not of my craftworld. But you are kin, you saw fit to save me. Please, save others." Instantly Arlek's suspicions were aroused, not of this man but of the architect of fate himself. Ever since the burning of Prospero Arlek had always been troubled by the suspicion that he only saw the futures Lord Tzeentch allowed him to see. Talk of missions and saviours gave Arlek the distinct impression Tzeentch's hands were on the scales of fortune again. But to what end? This troubled him more than any other aspect of this affair. Everything else he could react to, understand, predict. But the Changer of Ways? No. And as all those Thousand Sons who still retained mastery of their souls knew, Tzeentch was far from a benevolent ally.

But unable to swiftly divine just what the plan was, Arlek was forced to gather as much information as was possible.  
"What others?" He asked. "What was your mission?" The spiritseer took a moment to collect himself, even an Eldar mind could occasionally become jumbled with emotion it seemed, or was that only the dead?  
"Our craftworld has not even begun to recover from the devastation of the great hungering hive fleet. Yet still tragedies befall us. Our casualties have grown so great our reserve of spirit stones depleted faster than we ever allowed for. Further stretched by our efforts to repopulate, though they have had barely any success. To safeguard our future I, some aspect warriors and a cadre of wraithguard, even a wraithlord were sent to Aktosha to raid the world for spirit stones and return. We never reached our destination and I do not know how long my home can wait. Please, help us." So that was the secret? Or at least one of them. Spirit stones were not made or even grown upon the craft worlds, but seemingly gathered from a crone world. The Thousand Sons had little involvement there in the past, daemon worlds often held little left of value, and what men did walk the broken surface of those dead planets were devotees of Slaanesh. He had heard tales of astartes who pledged themselves to the Prince of Pleasure courting their master's favour with sacrifices of spirit stones upon those worlds. But those gems had always been filled with the worthy dead. For empty vessels to be present, was new information. Arlek suspected this shade held more secrets than just this, few would understand the workings of the spirit stone more than a spiritseer. But he doubted he could learn more now without arousing suspicion.

Taking a step back Arlek looked contemplative.  
"I do wish to aid you in your plight. But I must consider the wider situation. I will retire now, but if we do act I shall act swiftly." His tone and posture was one of reassurance. But just before Arlek left this monochromatic world of echoes he paused. "It occurs to me, I never introduced myself. I am Farseer Lorion."  
"And I, Spiritseer Elros." Arlek smiled slightly at the name and gave a small nod of thanks before making the signs of farewell and fading away, returning to his material body. The sense of weight, restraint and the unsettling sensation of his organs working their messy, inelegant functions was always unpleasant for the first few moments after returning to the mortal plane. But it was not long until he was again in control of his senses and master of his own flesh. Pausing only to put on his helmet with the hiss of airtight seals, he returned the stone to its box and carried it out of this idyllic garden. Working his way through the pristine corridors, his escorts still at his side by his wordless command, Arlek made his way to a room that was known only as the vault.

For such a grandiose name it was quite a small chamber, no more than twenty meters in each direction. It was never meant to hold a large volume of artefacts, merely protect them until a more permanent home could be found. But what made this place remarkable, was sheer degree of security present. Few permanent facilities could rival this place for protection. Everything from ancient biometric and mechanical security, to obfuscatory runes, individual stasis vats for every item, traps and alarms beyond counting, walls almost as thick as the hull and a micro shield array. But perhaps the finest craftsmanship here would go unnoticed to all but the most trained eye. Woven into the walls themselves. Arlek's father, the Crimson King, took some pride in his inscrutable miniature pyramid of psycho reactive crystal aboard the Photep, a facility he had replicated in his tent wherever the Legion made planetfall. Arlek had learned many of the secrets of its construction when assisting to erect the mobile counterpart, and though Magnus would never have revealed all of the techniques which allowed this marvel of craftsmanship to function, Arlek had been able to work out the gaps through his own ten millennia of questing. He had worked these crafts into the very walls, no one could scry what lay inside, or use warp born ears to hear what went on within. The pyramid on the Photep was immune even to the surveillance of the Emperor, and so to was this room. Arlek had recreated two such places aboard this ship. The vault, and a small chamber near his own quarters.

Whenever he entered either of those two rooms he knew briefly what it was like to be mortal. It was an unpleasant sensation as he felt the cold finger of mundanity snake up his spine and chill his hearts. He felt a little nauseous as he dwelt on the concept, his skin felt somehow heavier and wet. But he would not allow this to distract him. Carefully cataloguing the gem and securing it in its own suspended animation device before he returned to the bridge.

He entered to the sound of well-polished boots snapping to attention in unison.  
"Lordship on the bridge!" Called out the nearest hand, ramrod stiff chin jutting proudly into the air. Arlek had never seen his status as a renegade as any kind of a reason to let discipline or standards slip. He ran his men to the same exacting expectations as in the Great Crusade. He preferred it that way, not just because it resulted in a more effective fighting force, but also because occasionally he could forget, and pretend it was still the good old days.  
"As you were." He said to the bridge at large, not even taking a brief pause in his stride as he made his way to the command chair. "Consult the Navigator, lay in a course for Aktosha. Make way when ready. Alert Arelesea to prepare a scientific and xeno-archaeological survey team for surface deployment."

Gazing straight ahead, out of the bridge's main window, the glowing green eyes of Arlek's helm seemed to be staring unblinkingly into the heavens. His eyes did not falter even as the heavy shielding ground into place and shut out the stars. He had been engaging in that all too human of habits, staring out into space as if you could almost see the future in the void. Arlek let a barely amused, derisive grin spread across his face, concealed under his helmet. Is that what he had been reduced to when contemplating the future of his Legion and this venture, star gazing?

Even before the burning of their home the powers of the cults and psychic disciplines would wax and wane like the seas. At times he could see every detail of a potential course of action, every consequence and ramification stretching out for years beyond counting. Other times, often when the Raptora was strong, he and his Corvidae brothers would have difficulty telling what would happen across the next few hours. Now, he and his brothers were no longer limited to single disciplines, the complete vista of potential had been opened to them, though even now few could grasp the prescience of the Corvidae. But, individual disciplines still ebbed and flowed, though the gift of psychic foresight always seemed particularly vulnerable to these changes.

Slowly an unpleasant sneer replaced his hollow smile, whilst he sensed reality bend invisibly about him before shattering completely as they entered the great cacophony of the warp. His mind lingered on a thought he had over a million times before now. That it was not the natural flows of the great ocean that effected his foresight, but the conscious designs of a terrifying and powerful mind. Only one creature was capable of such a feat, Tzeentch. That the Changer of Ways and Master of Fate was showing Arlek and his brothers only exactly those things he wanted them to see in order to satisfy his inscrutable plans, along with those things which had no real significance to the god at all, was an unnerving prospect. Was he just running down a trail set out for him, his every effort to break away from it another step on a pre-determined path? And just what did Lord Tzeentch have in mind, whatever it was, Arlek doubted it involved the restoration of the Legion. After all, they were among some of his most effective tools, and with Magnus the Red at the Helm in his daemonhood, the dark god had tight control.

Arlek's souring mood only devolved further as his mind drifted to his father. All memory of his birth family had faded into a near irrelevance, he could remember their names, their faces, how they had raised him. But all of that paled into nothingness compared to the kinship Arlek shared with his brothers, and the fealty he felt towards the man who had embraced him as a son. Magnus had been the epitome of what man could achieve. Powerful, wise, calm, firm, gentle, pragmatic, curious, cultured and caring, so very caring. He was a man who valued poetry and music as much as he prized power and who would have done anything for his sons. But since ascending, or perhaps descending, to daemonhood, he had changed.

Arlek's mind turned to when the flesh change had torn the Legion asunder for the second time and Magnus had sat there, doing nothing! Nothing! One of Arlek's hands silently clenched into a fist at the memory. As Arlek, Ahriman and so many others had laboured ceaselessly to avert the crisis their father had remained silent! Then, at the end of it all, As Ahriman, Arlek, Amon and more besides, gathered together to cast the spell that would at last save them, their father broke the future of the Legion on his knee just as Russ had broken him! It could have worked! It would have worked! If it only they had been allowed to finish!

Wordlessly Arlek turned his head to look upon Hezrah and Sirax, his silent custodians, pity and grief returning to him. Magnus had done this to them, yes. But so had he. However, unlike Magnus, Arlek was going to do something about it. Slowly, a strange warmth began to creep over him as he remembered brother Ahzek telling him of a time a single brother had been plucked from the Rubric, his soul restored only for Magnus to again interject. But despite his father's interruptions that day had proven that it was possible, and better yet it indicated that both he and dear brother Ahriman were not quite beholden to Tzeentch's every whim. If they were, there would have been no need for Magnus. It was a thin hope, but it was a hope nonetheless, and unlike the other time he had seen his brothers restored to life, this was under their control. He hoped.

Rising into the mid enumerations he quelled the ebb and flow of worry and optimism in his soul and focused his mind on the future. He could almost see the paths of possibility stretching out before him, spreading like an infinitely complex root of a tree. Diverging, merging, shattering and ending in iterations beyond counting. Each strand of what might be burning vibrantly like the heart of a star, twisting in myriad colours that defied human perception and which were more felt than seen. As his focus drifted across them he was assaulted by a barrage of information and sensation well beyond the capabilities of even his disciplined mind to process. It was little more than the future screaming at him. But, focusing on Aktosha he could cause all those strands which did not touch that place to fall away like water. Further refining by time, trivialities and his own perspective infinite possibilities were reduced to but a handful.

But what a sorry handful it was, what remined was dull and vague, not just shrouded but almost decayed from the inside, it was difficult to tell how many meaningful paths there even were. Had he cast his sight in any other direction Arlek knew his over ten thousand years of experience would have allowed him to see something, even when the Corvidae ebbed low. But this path was well concealed. It had taken months of ceaseless effort to discover the Inquisitorial ship, and even then Arlek suspected it had not quite been his hand that pulled back the veil. But still, he would not be dissuaded.

Descending from his view upon high Arlek immersed himself in these ghostly possibilities, and was greeted with little more than aimless sensation. Even then he could feel something trying to drive him back, whilst tugging what little there was to find away from him. Many a man would have failed completely, even Arlek would have had this been a few thousand years ago. It took every element of his prescient skill to grasp at even the feeblest remains of what could be. The strain was immense, he could feel his strength bleeding away into the great ocean, attracting clouds of gibbering things to greedily feed upon the backwash of his efforts. Despite this all his toil brought him were brief and aimless bursts of sensation. Echoing wind, hungry eyes, aimless suspicion, maddening confusion, the bitter taste of a betrayal, laughter falling silent, the iron sensation of blood, maddening grief, childlike elation, epiphany and confusion. Useless. All useless! In the haze he could not even tell which sensations belonged to which future. The enumerations may have supressed his frustration and sharpened his focus, but he could still see when his efforts were in vein.

With a trace of regret Arlek was forced to withdraw from his efforts to stare into the future and what awaited him. His consciousness returned to the ship and it's elegant yet understated bridge, looking out from his great helm across his crew without a word. Ignorance of the fates would not deter him from pursuing this new lead to its end. Countless mortals lived like that every day, he would not flinch for that alone. And though it was clear there would be great risks associated with the path he had chosen to blindly fumble down, the potential rewards meant that it was not merely worthwhile, it was absolutely necessary. Sinking heavily into his command chair Arlek took pause to regain his strength, whilst his craft headed with impossible speed through the warp, towards the crone world and what awaited them.


	3. Chapter 3

The surface of this world had been torn and twisted by the birth of Slaanesh, a process that had only continued as what was once a jewel of the galaxy bathed in the etheric energies of the eye of terror. The sky above was an ever broiling ocean of purple fire, lightning arcing within impossible clouds in colours that defied all description. Traces of vast, things, above gave the impression of titanic whales swimming amongst the maelstrom, but they were little more than half remembered shadows of once mighty beasts. Cruel winds whipped over the surface of Aktosha, blowing away any semblance of life that dared take hold on the blasted earth. The constant gales bit hard, like cruel tongues attempting to lacerate armour and bone, and coming far closer to achieving that than physics would usually allow.

The ground itself was a parody of what had once been. Mountains had dissolved into shifting oceans of liquid rock, so cold that fingers would snap off at the merest touch of the unnatural surface. Great planes had bent and warped as if boiled, frozen, shattered and remade time and time again by the mind of an insane sculptor who had no reason left, and who was never satisfied with his work. The sands which were blowing across the dead world would occasionally spark into shards of white fire, clogging the air with acrid smoke and burning with supernatural intensity anything it lay upon.

The remains of the Aeldari cities blended into the terrain as if they were a naturally occurring part of this less than natural landscape. Many of the great towers that had once dominated the landscape had been destroyed, most of those which remained had been warped like half melted candles. Everything which stood tall was wrapped in strange, bleached stone. Nearly eleven thousand years of dust and debris had caked onto their surface, blown into bizarrely smooth and unnatural shapes by both warp and wind.

It was on what had once been a grand balcony on the edge of one such spire, that the thunderhawks bearing Arlek and his comrades landed. A few squads of mortal Spire Guard soldiers hurried out, weapons at the ready, not trusting in the silence of this warp haunted world. Each man wore an antiquated gasmask and chemically treated clothes, as if fighting in a chemically tainted battlefield. Behind them came Arlek, flanked as every by his two loyal guardians, and with him came brother Orisian and a further ten eerily quiet rubricae. Flowing in between these mountains of ceramite was a stream of minor members of the dark mechanicum, assistant crewmen and servitors, lugging boxes of equipment and tools. Occasionally the jarring voice of Arelesea would sound out from the recesses of the thunderhawk, barking a mixture of reprimands and orders at her various assistants, the less skilled of which she thought of as something less than readily replaceable parts in a machine. At least a decent part did its job correctly!

But Arlek was almost deaf to all of this. Instead he was looking out across this blasted hellscape, and imagining history. His mind's eye drew spiralling towers of glowing stone and glass, aqueducts flowing with crystal blue water and lush gardens filled with the most expertly tendered flora. He could almost hear the voices of the citizens going about their business, the scratching of learned scholars at work in their libraries and the sound of music from some unseen performance. But he could not allow himself to indulge in such imaginings for too long. In time he might truly begin to hear those long dead voices, and in worlds so bathed in the warp as this one, such hallucinations were often the prelude to doom.

Focusing his mind on the task at hand he turned to Orisian.  
"Brother. See to it everyone moves within the spire, quickly. This place can do little to harm us but the same does not apply to our comrades. Once inside I leave coordination of the search for the spirit stones to you."  
"Yes my Lord." Replied Orisian, a slight discoloration visible in his armour from where it had been so recently repaired. Already the man was silently directing the rubricae to assist with moving the heaviest objects, a task unbefitting such warriors perhaps, but it would hasten things.

Arlek meanwhile continued surveying the surrounding landscape for a time. His eyes were alert for any half-dissolved structure that somehow seemed more prominent than the rest. But he found nothing, everything that remained had been so altered by the ravages that had beset this world as to render such distinctions near meaningless. The only structural feature of any immediate note was a small gangway, suspended perilously in the air, connecting this tower and the one across from it. Pausing only to briefly admire a terrifyingly beautiful river of liquid metal which leached vast clouds of noxious gas into the air, Arlek then proceeded inside.

He had not quite known what to expect when entering these ancient halls. But the quiet of it all was difficult to comprehend. It was the kind of silence that only existed where there had once been great activity. Not so much a mere absence of noise, but a subtle and pernicious vacuum of stillness that jealously consumed all sound around it and left everything unnaturally cold. Even the utter emptiness of space somehow seemed fuller than this place. He had not known it's like since venturing in the ruins of Tizca after it's broken remains had been transplanted to Sortiarius. Though that place cut him far deeper than any xenos world ever could.

Looking about Arlek could see that what had once been faultless walls of wraithbone and other unknown materials, were now cracked and stained, strange energies seeming to seep out of every imperfection. Ceilings of subtle glass had been burned black by warpfire, strands of now cooled molten glass hung down in strange threads, as if the ceiling itself had wept. Pointless trinkets and personal objects occasionally dotted the floor, where the person holding them had simply dropped them to the ground and ran, or been whisked away by their self-inflicted doom.

It was not long before he found himself in darkness, accompanied only by the sounds of his footsteps and that of his two companions. Were it not for the array of sensory auguries in his helm he would have become blind. But these ancient technologies allowed him to see almost unimpeded. What concerned him more however, was the sense of someone, something, staring at him. No matter where he went he could feel eyes on the back of his neck, curious, accusing stares edged with a dark longing. Arlek had been expecting this of course, he knew that few places were as mired in demonic energy as the crone worlds, and the god that ruled here had a more voracious and twisted an appetite than any. As powerful as he was, Arlek knew to be cautious in this place despite it's apparent emptiness, his mental defences reinforced beyond their already formidable strength.

In time he walked into a great chamber, almost cathedral like in scale, with high vaulted ceilings that were reminiscent of the rib cage of an ancient whale, though one which swam amongst stars rather than seas. Windows of painfully elegant stained glass had been shattered, jagged shards which still managed to be beautiful in their broken form littered the ground, and drifts of fine sand had blown in. A sickly light fell reluctantly into the room, a welcome relief from the darkness of the inner corridors. The floor was gently sloped, leading down to a large, slightly raised platform. Row upon row of elegantly crafted benches facing towards it, the threadbare remnants of what had once been lavish upholstery now clung on like spiderwebs. Even these fragile remains had only been able to survive the millennia due to the near total lack of moisture in what this dead world laughably called an atmosphere.

Casting his eyes around the great hall Arlek let out a small sigh. It was one of wistful appreciation, a dash of regret and a heavy overtone of disappointment. He stood, in otherwise silent reflection for what must have been minutes until the harsh clicking of mechadentrites signalled Arelesea's approach.  
"Why do you linger here Arlek?" She pressed, her ever jarring tones somehow more grating for the trace of accusation they carried. She would never normally have been so familiar with her Lord, but in the absence of others she knew Arlek afforded her some leniency.

Without turning Arlek raised his hands as if to gesture at the entire hall.  
"Do you not see the tragedy of it all, can you not taste what was lost on the air?"  
"I see a man with an over active imagination." Arelesea responded flatly, prompting Arlek to give a brief, semi amused snort at what he recognised to be her own brand of deadpan humour. Despite it all, there was some vestige of a person in that twisted pile of flesh and metal. Heading down towards the platform with an animated stride Arlek spoke in tones edged with enthusiasm.  
"Look at this. This was a stage, perhaps a theatre of some kind. Who knows what productions were performed here? What music was played, now never to be heard again? Could it rival the romantics, or was it far too alien for comparison? What of plays and dances? What tales were told? Did Rillietann dance here before the fall? Or was there no need of such things?"

Arelesea however, stood there, unimpressed.  
"What is the purpose in your rambling Arlek?" She pressed, with a hint of impatience and exasperation in her harsh and grating voice.  
"Purpose? Must everything have a purpose beyond itself?"  
"Perhaps not, but it would be pleasant if your inane prattle could have a point just once." She quipped with lightning speed, prompting Arlek to spin on the spot. His great helm staring down at her, looming and threatening. But after a few, tense moments, the hall was filled with the echoing sound of his laughter.  
"I was unaware that you had grafted poison tipped barbs on your tongue"  
"Did you not know Arlek? The latest thing in self-defence." Arlek regretted not being able to see her face in that moment, he liked to imagine a wry smirk on her lips. But within the shadows of her hood he knew she had no lips to smile, or mouth to speak. Just an aging vox unit mounted in the cold plating that had long since replaced the lower half of her face.

Looking at her he felt slightly troubled, there had always been something unsettling about members of the mechanicum. He well understood the desire to augment the frail human body, for an astartes to think anything else would have been the height of hypocrisy. But whilst he and his brothers were a heightened form of mankind, he worried that people like Arelesea had been somehow reduced in their search for perfection. Not more than a man, but less. It was these ruminations that caused him to remain silent, rather than laugh at her retort. Instead he simply turned back towards the stage, vaulting up on top of it with a surprising grace for a man so heavily armoured.

Looking out across the rows of seats he imagined generations of aeldari faces looking back at him. His mind went to those eldar performances and myths that he knew, wondering how they might have been played out on this stage. Forgetting for a moment the, at best surreptitious and at worst horrific, means by which he had obtained such knowledge over the millennia. But he knew for all the beauty, grace and artistry of the ancient eldar, there was a much greater darkness. And with a mind willing to see such things, there was evidence of it even here.

Casting his eye down to the floor of the stage Arlek's keen and educated eye could make out the phantasmal remains of runes of power and etched ceremonial lines that would amplify the presence and power of the arcane, heightening the most lavish of pleasures, and deepening the darkest of agonies. Added to it all were deep, dark stains that had irrevocably seeped into the floor, achievable only through repeated and profane blood lettings. From his new vantage point he could see on the walls of this once beautiful chamber the remains of shackles, rivets in walls that had once supported nightmarish devices of torture now found only in Commorragh and the shattered remains of liquid storage tanks scattered amongst the stained glass, tanks that had once held an array of deplorable chemicals even the modern cults of Slaanesh would envy.

He held back a contemptuous scoff as he considered the marks beneath him. These symbols now held places of prominence in the rituals of the thirsting god. Rituals he would never deign to indulge in. They may not have meant such things when they were first carved by this decadent race, but they had played their part in creating this abomination of the warp, and it was only fitting that such things should continue not in the traditions of the eldar, but in the traditions of their most powerful creation.

This grand hall contained much of what Arlek admired of the eldar, an appreciation of something other than mere technological mastery. But it also displayed their most contemptable aspects, excesses and indulgences made all the more offensive for having come from a people who should have known better. Looking up slowly, Arlek could feel Arelesea's silent gaze, impatience mixed with concern. When Arlek spoke he did so with an icy calm that bordered on a whisper, but which demanded more attention that any shout.  
"Do you know what the true difference is between the ancient aeldari and my brothers?" Asked Arlek, not truly expecting an answer from the coweld woman before him, and indeed receiving only silence. "The aeldari deserved it." Without a further word he stood up suddenly, marched out of the chamber with perceptible annoyance, even anger in his steps. Leaving Arlesea to stand there in confused, and slightly worried, silence.

The echoing sound of three armoured pairs of feet reverberated down the twisted corridors of the spire as Arlek, accompanied by the ever silent Sirax and Hezrah marched along the dark passage ways. Behind them came the spider like scuttle of Arelesea, mechadentrites embedding in walls, ceiling and floor as she darted along, legs hanging beneath her. She preferred the use of her feet, but limbs of mortal proportions were inadequate to keep up with three hastily striding astartes. Eventually she was able to overtake the trio, grateful for the fact Arlek was not actually running, whereupon she lowered her self down in front of them with a sudden jolt, dangling like a poorly strung marionette.  
"Stop!" She ordered, a bold thing to do to a sorcerer of the Thousand Sons. Had they been in company she might very well have paid the price. But as things were Arlek came to an abrupt halt, a little less than a tonne of ceramite, adamantium, plasteel, hyper dense muscle fibre and reinforced bone pulling shot mere inches from her. Arelesea's heart would have beaten fast in a moment of fear were it not artificially regulated, after all, if Arlek had chosen to keep going her frame would stand little chance against his hulking form. "Stop." She repeated more quietly, her grating tones devoid of any trace of warmth or moderation, only her reduced volume and the shapes of her thoughts in Arlek's mind gave any indication of that.

He felt a little sorry for her and her interactions with any creature that could not, at the very least, read her auras. All shade of emotion and subtlety had long been stripped from that voice of hers, and her body so changed and so hidden beneath those robes as to make common body language impossible. It took a psyker to know when she was amused or angered, elated or mournful, joking or deadly serious. Still his pity only went so far, she had done this to herself after all. Besides, she had never struck him as a woman who thought much of what others thought of her.

"This is not Prospero." Arelesea pointed out, as if stating the absurdly obvious. "Why are you so agitated?" Arlek thought for a moment of defying her assertion that his mood had been in any way effected. But it did not take a psyker to realise he was out of sorts, and Arelesea knew him better than most. Pausing he replied.  
"Because it so nearly is." In tones that seemed a little more human than usual.  
"Your legion brothers did not fall here. Why mourn now for blood spilt light years away?" Her point was logical enough, and Arlek ignored the tinge of accusation in her thoughts.  
"It is not lives that I mourn." Despite his words this answer was only partly truthful, this place had summoned up images of Tizca, and with that came the anguish of remembering the loss of so many of his brothers. But it was not what had first come to his mind.  
"Then what?" Pressed Arelesea, clutching for understanding. Whilst beneath the unmoving maw of the jackal, a smile slowly spread across Arlek's face.  
"Knowledge." He answered briefly.  
"Knowledge?" She replied, her thoughts broadcasting her surprise. "How very like the mechanicum of you." Prompting Arlek's silent smile to turn into a single, semi amused snort.  
"You forget, when Prospero burned we wept as much for the destruction of the great libraries as the death of our kinsmen." He took a step back and gestured about him, as if indicating the whole planet. "There was so much here. So much knowledge. Not just the cold power of circuitry and technology. But the subtle arts of the mind, whole schools of thought, philosophy, ways of looking at the universe undreamt by man. Even an aesthetic charm to rival Tizca itself. All gone, destroyed. If it were stolen that would be tolerable. It could be reclaimed. But for it to be eradicated, with no thought to it's value, or worse still a gleeful joy in knowing exactly what it was you were doing. Such barbarism is worthy of the dogs."

Arlek resumed his path down the corridor, the thud of his boots slower and softer now, Arelesea lowering herself down on to her normal legs beside him, pressing him further.  
"That would explain melancholy, not frustration."  
"Is it not enough to be frustrated that such a thing could occur, to resent those forces that would wreck such devastation upon the stars and the light of knowledge?" He replied sharply.  
"Perhaps, but I would be cautious saying such things."  
"Do not lecture me on caution Arelesea. I have been cautious for several of your lifetimes!" His tone bordered between condescending and annoyed.

Refocusing she clarified.  
"My point is, that you are not agitated simply at the forces that did this. You are angry at the eldar." There was a moment of heavy silence as Arlek considered his answer, before eventually conceeding.  
"Yes, yes I am. Because they did this to themselves. They didn't just have this glory taken from them, they threw it away." Pausing only to sigh he continued "My brothers and I, we exercised every fibre of control and caution we could at every turn. Even in the ignorance of our early days every one of us knew there was a danger. We understood that in a way not even an eldar could comprehend. They will never know what it feels like to be forced to guard your flesh, every minute of every day for centuries with ruthless mental discipline. They pretend that they know the predation of the warp worse than any other. But they do not know that. But it taught us prudence and discipline. Even in our first steps in the immaterium we could feel something staring back. We exercised every caution and still everything was torn from us by the hands of ignorance. But the eldar. They should have known better, they had every warning and they had the intellect to see it. No force could have taken what they had from them, only their own selfishness and carelessness. But still they persisted. They might as well have set fire to the libraries themselves. That puts their transgressions almost on a par with the dogs of Russ."

The two descended deeper and deeper into the spire complex in contemplative silence after that. Arlek's mind wondering if those few ancient eldar who had sense, those who now dwelt on the craftworlds and the exodite worlds, could ever recover what was lost? Did he even want them to? For he knew any eldar would gladly cast him upon the pyre without pausing to draw any distinction between him and his fallen cousins.

Eventually the small group found their way into the base of the spire, where upon they were confronted with a heavily reinforced door, large enough to fit a baneblade through. In the silence Arlek could hear the phantasmal sounds of armies of fists banging on the door, the room was filled with the taste of panic and pain, threatening shouts and desperate pleading. With the eye of faith he could see the impossible outlines of hundreds of vague figures crashing against the door like the sea on a cliff. Those in front being crushed to death by the desperate efforts of those to the rear. He had seen enough, and rising into the first enumeration Arlek banished such shades of the past from his mind.

"We must get through this door." He said flatly, prompting Arelesea to extend a mechandentrite and violently thrust it into a near by control panel.  
"This door has no power." She plainly declared. "It will not be opening any time soon." But Arlek only snorted. Reaching out with his mind he could feel the elegantly simple mechanisms that moved the door, grasping them with a thought he began to push and pull at them like a puppet on a string until slowly the gate began to slide open. On it's surface long dead runes seemed to flare for a moment in a vain attempt to stop him. But such crafts had long since lost their power in this place.

As soon as the thinnest crack had appeared a terrible psychic scream tore out with the speed a rabid grey hound kept in his pen for far too long. It defied hearing and took effect directly in the mind, higher than any sound made by nature, wracked with utter pain and desperation. Arlek, as mentally robust as he was, could withstand such things unaffected. He was aware of it but it held no power over him, caused no pain. But Arelesea was not so fortunate. Slumping to her knees her hands vainly tried to clasp at her head. Her lithe mechandentries, which often writhed like serpents behind her, fell limp and lifeless, clattering on the cold floor. Her vox unit let out sudden, jarring bursts of discordant static, almost as loud as the great cry that had caused them.

The psychic assault passed as quickly as it had struck. But Arelesea remained upon the floor, body starting to spasm, her artificial voice still producing those meaningless blasts of noise. Meaningless to anyone else perhaps, but the waves of pain and fear pouring off of her made it all to clear to Arlek what those noises were. It was the closest to crying her machine throat would allow her. Moving swiftly Arlek knelt beside her, an armoured hand reaching beneath her hood and lying upon the curve of her skull. Through his armour he could feel cold flesh beneath his hand, strands of feeble hair that fell away at the merest touch, and ports for pipes and wires to interface directly with her brain.

Reaching into her mind he tried to distinguish woman from machine. Even the strangest of xenos minds were easier to understand that that of a member of the mechanicum, dark or loyal. Something in the machine defied instinctive understanding, and was a struggle to comprehend. But for all her mechanical augments, her brain was still undeniably human, the mechanical elements little more than implants to allow the weak flesh to control and understand the resilient machine. Running along the channels of her mind he could feel the start of her cascading collapse, it was like a dam at the very moment of bursting. Pouring a fraction of his own strength into her he rapidly set about patching the dam, forcing back the tide almost by sheer will. But damage was already done, he could not just feel her thoughts but her flesh. Haemorrhages were starting to erupt, other veins quivered on the edge of bursting. Without hesitation Arlek settled into the second enumeration, one in which every tiny facet of reality was augmented, details often missed stood out like the sun. He could feel every facet of her body in a single breath. Focusing on every internal rupture, every microscopic fissure in her brain and body he called upon a school of the thousand sons he rarely used, for it came with a cost. If he was not careful, it would be a cost greater than he was willing to pay. He summoned up the biomantic arts of the Pavoni, grateful the restrictions of the cults had long since fallen away. With it, he began restoring her tissue, mending wounds no scalpel could reach, binding flesh together again so perfectly it would not leave even a scar upon her organs. Any surgeon would claim she had never been injured.

"It's all right now." He said softly, or as softly as his helm would allow. Before suddenly he jerked back. The Pavoni law of equivalent exchange hit him like a train. Every ounce of pain she had felt now coursed through his body like burning lime in his blood. His eyes felt as though they were boiling, running like wax from his skull, a pain made all the worse for being in the second enumeration. It exaggerated everything… everything. Had he the weak flesh of mortals the shock of the pain alone would have killed him. Millenia of practice allowed him to rise into the fourth enumeration despite the assault on his senses that would have broken the mental discipline of many. Slowly, far too slowly, the pain began to subside. But still, to prevent himself from screaming he was forced to jam his jaw shut so hard he almost shattered his teeth. Though sheer force of will, and genetic resilience he was able to stop the wounds surfacing in his own body. But he was made to pay for it with even more lancing agony.

He did not know how much time passed. But eventually he was able to open his eyes, the throbbing in his head manageable, fading. Breathing, even. Slowly he became aware of eyes floating just in front of his face. One was a deep hazel, wide with fear and panic, darting about, looking for a solution that was not there. The other was an unblinking red light, devoid of all movement or emotion. The rest of the face was hard to see, shadowed and insignificant when compared to the eyes staring back at him, his focus on them alone.

Eventually he could feel cold metal tugging vainly at his helm, nimble fingers of adamantium starting to seek out the release mechanisms. Groggily, like a man rising from sleep. Arlek gently rose a hand to hold back these grasping hands.  
"I am all right." He reassured the woman he knew was Arelesea. "I am all right." Silence fell upon them as Arelesea flopped back, her features returning to impenetrable shadow, her breathing even only by virtue of mechanical regulation. Arlek was content not to speak at all, focusing his thoughts on banishing the last vestiges of pain. Whilst Arrlesra found herself at a rare loss for words. The silence was only ended by the heavy thud of the door opening all the way. Wordlessly the two rose to their feet, casting brief glances at one another, before proceeding inside, followed by Arlek's guardians.

In an instant it was apparent that their suffering had been worthwhile. Behind the door was what was clearly a bunker, it's military function obvious even through alien architecture. Dozens, hundreds, of crystals lay scattered upon the floor. Stretching all the way to back of the great chamber, which was covered in monitors and control consoles. The other walls were stacked high with shelves, each laden with a variety of items. Some were unrecognisable piles of decayed fibre and organic matter that had long since turned to dust. Supplies perhaps, to allow the occupants to wait out a siege. Other, less perishable items were not only identifiable, but intact! Preserved in the protected environment of the shelter. Tools, weapons, armour, and other things Arlek had never seen before. One day this had doubtless been an assortment of unremarkable things. But today, it was a treasure trove. Arlek did not need to tell Arelesea what to do next, she was already summoning her crews and servitors through her internal vox net link.

The psychic stench of death hung heavy here, even for this twisted world. He could feel the stands of enumerable souls stretched out in torment, the silent screams of their pain their last remains in this world. It did not take Arlek long to associate the threadbare remains of souls, shadows of a shadow, to the stones that lay upon the ground. Re doubling his barriers he bent down to pick up one such stone, and suddenly the weeping echo that was associated with it was gone, banished by the slightest disturbance. Replaced by a strange, gentle pulse of light. He already knew he was holding an empty spirit stone, but in an instant, he now understood what they truly were. The last remains of dead aeldari. Why else would the souls of the dead dwell upon them? Why there were none above was curious, but he had only trodden the obvious paths. Plundered before perhaps? He remained staring at is as the voice of Arelesea called out from the terminals.  
"Lord Erelash! This terminal is intact! Without power but intact. If I can power it I may be able to recover any amount of data!" If he had not known better Arlek could almost have sensed excitement radiating from her.

As Arlek held the empty waystone in his hand, gazing into its ever changing facets, he felt a shift in the aetheric energies of the warp. They blew across the surface of this world like a great, ever raging sea, and on its own such a change meant little to nothing in this place of chaos. But now the streams of wyrd power indicated a void, like water parting around a rock. For a void in the warp to open here, was strange at best, concerning at worst. Turning to Arelesea he commanded. "Gather every stone you can, collect every item, and wrench every shed of data possible from this terminal. But do it quickly. We may have to leave, hastily." Despite the familiarity that existed between the heretical mechanicus and her Lord, she knew better than to question him or make light when she heard that tone in his voice. Something was wrong, and she knew that if Arlek thought something was wrong, it had to be taken seriously. Instead of question him she simply stressed the urgency of her recall command to her thralls.

Arlek for his part was already striding back along the corridors that would take him to the great performance hall, his rubricae guards silently falling in behind him, servitors and technical crew streaked past him in the opposite direction, hauling all manner of equipment with them. Any previous task forgotten in light of their mistresses' command.

Moving past the hall Arlek emerged out onto the gangway, connecting this deformed spire with the next. He could see brother Orisian jogging towards him with the low thud of ancient power armour on the move. "I sense it as well my Lord. Though what it is I cannot tell."  
"It is a mind capable of repelling the warp, even here." Clarified Arlek, no mere natural phenomenon could do this. "And it is moving towards us. I can taste its intelligence on the wind. But they are unaware of us, for now. The maelstrom conceals us, but this may not last. Brother Orisian, gather your battle brothers and place them upon the spires on either side of this gangway. Supplement each position with a full quarter of our mortal soldiers. I will take the remaining half and occupy the gangway itself. Lay in wait, and do not act until I do!" Arlek's words left little room for debate.  
"As you will my Lord." Replied Orisian, already giving silent, psychic commands to the rubricae around them who leapt into action as one man.

Arlek could feel the confusion and uncertainty of the mortal men around them, their minds a chorus of anxious whispers. Normally this would be no great issue, but with a mind that could keep the warp at bay, such mental chattering could betray them. Had Arlek been the man that was approaching, he would have been able to sense the disquiet of their minds long before he ever laid eyes upon the troops. He had to assume this new presence had some similar gifts. So, Arlek rose into the third enumeration, one of calm, dispassionate control and awareness, and drew a cloak of psychic silence over his men, their position bleeding back into the chaotic background noise of the warp. Meanwhile he proclaimed his orders to the men around him in powerful tones that seemed to etch his words into stone.  
"Take up ambush positions along this walkway. Conceal yourselves wholly from view. Speak no words, make no sound, and await my command!" Everyman here knew better than to even hesitate when a Lord of Chaos spoke, and they wordlessly obeyed, a flurry of crimson uniforms rushing into position, each man clutching his weapon like it was a life preserver in a violent sea.

Arlek for his part concealed himself behind the melted remains of what had once been an ornate statue, the remnants of its face twisted into a parody of its former beauty, it's distorted mouth hanging open in silent, mocking laughter. There he crouched, waiting, allowing the fingers of his mind to subtly snake out and run like mists over the land. But still the void persisted, and he did not wish to risk betraying his presence by assaulting it. But now he could sense the many, manifold and shifting wards that maintained this vacuum. This practitioner had a delicate and beautiful craft, one that well concealed the power beneath. But for all its skill and force, such barriers were not unassailable. But suddenly his attention was wrenched way. The air about him took on a sharp, unnatural tang, a sensation that bypassed the filters of his helmet and took effect directly upon his tongue, whilst his Corvidae senses shouted for his attention. It was rare for them to stir on their own. Even when they waxed at their height it took a keen and applied mind to coax them into action.

Rising higher through the enumerations to guard his soul, he allowed his perception of the universe to drift away from the petty mundanity of the mortal world, and ascend into a realm of incomprehensible complexity and vibrant, impossible colour where everything seemed to be without purpose, but nothing was without meaning. In this place, every facet of the warp, it's every shade and shadow, thirsted. What it longed for was almost irrelevant, there was simply a vast, indiscriminate hunger, more voracious than a black hole, and infinitely more terrible. Occasionally the strands of tortured souls would stretch past him in impossibly thin threads, vibrating with indescribable torment. The moment of their consumption stretched out into infinity in this land without time. He could feel the ephemeral eyes of these eternally dying souls staring at him, pleading for a mercy Arlek would not give. Mouths that wanted to beg for an end to it all, but which were so broken they could no longer even indulge in the hollow relief of screaming, stretch open in silence. And all about him, that great hunger drank the final moment of their existence, forever.

But to Arlek these were petty distractions and irrelevances. Another time he might have felt a pang of emotion for them, or even satisfaction at their well-deserved fate. But he could not allow himself that emotional indulgence now. Instead he swept aside all such pointless noise, peeling away layer after layer of the great ocean, until the dark and dull strands of fate lay beneath him. To all but the most trained eye they would have seemed unmoving, even dead. But Arlek knew no strand of the future was ever dead, simply hidden, and something about what lay beneath him was moving, vibrating on the edge of perception. Reaching out he lay what passed for a hand in this place upon one such cord. Normally his sight would have been filled with the knowledge of what lay down this path, of the choices that would lead him there, and of consequences to come. But still, no new knowledge or insight came to him. Instead he could feel only a strange hum course down this path into the future, occasionally tugging almost imperceptibly under his gentle touch.

In a flash he knew what was happening, he had seen such things before. Both he and the master of his cult had known of the inevitability of this phenomenon long before they ever encountered it. To talk of destiny and fate was foolish, the smallest action, the smallest choice, could change everything. Amongst the most powerful of these subtle actions was observation. Even to look upon the paths of the future and the threads of possibility changed them irrevocably. That was what was happening now, another eye was gazing into the future, another hand was plucking at the fabric of what was to come to see what future could be woven, and their focus was on this world, and the near future.

Arlek had no way of knowing if his view into these threads was uniquely obscured, or if all watchers would be confronted with the same veils. But, he knew that it was by no means guaranteed, his presence, and the presence of his men could be betrayed. To stare into what might be was a challenging and uncertain task, but still more complex was to conceal these things from another who had the talent to look for them, without being detected. Were his fortunes better Arlek could have found those strands which indicated his presence and bent them to hide his hand. But blinded as he was, this could not be done. All that was left was to make this unknown eye blind as well. But this grand dulling of the threads was beyond his ken, indeed beyond any practitioner of the seer sight that Arlek had ever heard of. Such things were the preserve of the tides of the warp itself. He had to find an alternative.

Allowing a sliver of his consciousness to rush down this dark thread his mind sought out the epicentre of the vibrations, where trace of an unknown hand lay upon a strand of what was to come. This was no fumbling novice, even this faint echo was guarded by powerful wards and a keen mind. Arlek could not simply crawl into the seers mind and burn it away as he had with others. Nor could he risk detection by brutaly attempting to overpower these barriers. But in a moment of cruel cunning, a solution did occur to him. Reaching out with a veiled hand he worked an ephemeral mark into the fabric of the outermost ward. His subtle artistry allowed his work to go unnoticed, for now, and it in no way interrupted the harmony or power of this seer's armour against the madness.

Instead, as Arlek began to withdraw his perception, he felt the power of the seer beginning to pulse and thrumb in the warp, their trace echoing into the great ocean, shining like a lamp in the dark. Arlek's work was done. Here, where the warp wad dominated by eternal hunger and insatiable appetite, it would be but mere moments before a horde of predators descended upon this unknown seer. Whilst it was clear this person had the ability to survive long enough to withdraw, Arlek doubted he could read the strands of fate whilst his very soul was beset by an unknowable, thirsting, monstrosity of the ephemera.

Drawing his thoughts and vision back to the mundane world, anchoring his soul within the protection of his flesh once more, Arlek could feel a change in the wind which now almost sparked with unnatural potential. Meanwhile, the void that was approaching them stopped momentarily, before resuming its course with renewed speed. Had it worked?

What emerged from the growing storm of dust and sparking white fire were elegant shadows, five poorly formed shapes, cloaked in misdirection even in an open plane. They moved with an alien fluidity, taking advantage of every small fold in the blasted earth. Arlek could feel the minds of his men wanting to fire on these tempting targets, to calm them he whispered imperceptible thoughts of stillness and restraint into the depths of their consciousness. These men were not their prey. In moments these five shades had worked their way into the tattered remains of nearby buildings, Arlek knew it would not be long before they found connecting corridors to the two great spires now occupied by the Thousand Sons and their mortal servants. But still, he wordlessly bade his men be still and silent.

After them came more defined figures, each still treading softly upon the ground with a feline grace. At this distance details were difficult to discern, but Arlek could see all he needed to. Twenty four figures moved in well-coordinated cells, each providing cover for the other as they flowed over the empty ground like water. The gently tapering points of their helms, and the black lacquer and bleached bone of their armour, told Arlek who these creatures were. The warriors of Ulthanash Shelwe. But still Arlek bound his warrior's minds to silence. These eldar warriors were little more than children in his sight. Two dozen black guardians were unremarkable to him, and whilst they may pose a challenge to his mortal servants, neither sorcerer or rubricae had much to fear from such warriors. But what mattered, was that not a single one of those small and laughably fragile minds that thought themselves protected, could have created the void. Arlek would wait as long as he could, until their master showed himself.

But time was running out. Soon the guardians would reach the cover of those same buildings the first men had found, and Arlek risked losing the advantage of his ambush. But he would not be rushed! In time a further cohort emerged. The next shapes to take form from the swirling storm which seemed only to grow in intensity, were a pair of falcon type grav tanks, the quiet hum of their gravitic generators imperceptible against the wind, the sands beneath their anti-grav fields unsettlingly still. But it was what appeared between these two tanks that caught Arlek's attention. Three figures advanced in an arrow formation, sheltering a fourth within. Each was dressed in long, ornamental, robes in the colours of their craftworld, which fluttered in the wind to reveal brief glimpses of the modified aspect armour beneath. The witchblades held at the ready in cautious hands were enough to tell anyone who knew these xenos that these were warlocks at the very least. But the alien powers swirling around the figure at the rear, energies that Arlek's sorcerous sight allowed him to behold, made it clear that there was something more than a warlock here, more even than a spiritseer. A farseer.

Even as yet more shapes began to take form in the storm Arlek's focus lingered on the frail creature sitting at the centre of these energies, their every rune of power burning in Arlek's arcane perceptions like a tightly contained star. Clear, precise, powerful. Many a man had been known to withdraw simply upon hearing that a farseer was on the field, and who could blame them? Power, skill, experience and futuresight all in one keen mind. But Arlek did not feel fear or even caution as he surveyed this creature. He felt pity.

To see your home burn, and to walk in its ruins. To witness millennia of untold knowledge vanish in fires set by your own kind, to see indescribable, irreplaceable beauty melt like tallow, for a subtle and intricate culture to be reduced to only ash. Arlek knew these pains better than most eldar, for he had been present at the fall of everything. How many of their kind could say the same? Barely a handful now. But it went beyond the fall. He felt as keenly as any eldar the eternal tension of teetering on the edge of extinction. The burning conviction to wage a hopeless struggle to save the souls of your kin. Lives of eternal vigilance and discipline. Souls weathering the burdens of longevity in a furious galaxy of briefly flickering candles. A people that were not content to live in ignorance, but which valued knowledge almost as highly as the 15th legion itself.

And in their psykers was something further, a practiced, refined and ancient craft. The product of untold millennia of tradition and knowledge almost as old as the stars. Powerful men and women, some of whom could gaze into the strands of what might be as well as he could. Discipline and artistry, curiosity and caution, power and control. These were not the decadent aeldari he held in such contempt. Were it not for a few errant strands of DNA he would not be calling these xenos enemies. He would have been embracing them beneath the pyramids of Tizca, and calling them brother.

But the fates had been as cruel as ever, and rather than allow the men of the 15th to extend a hand to these souls, circumstance and prejudice had forced his brothers into bitter conflict with the closest thing to them that remained in this burning galaxy. His hearts tensed painfully, he wanted to stand and take this moment to try and stop the two lights left in creation from battling one another into darkness. To have even one day of stillness and calm between them. But he did not have to be a seer to understand that such an effort was doomed. The arrogance of the eldar made it difficult enough for any, so called, Mon-Keigh to establish a dialogue that ended in anything but misfortune. A difficulty that was only compounded by their dogmatic belief that every sorcerer of the 15th had fallen to Chaos, a belief Arlek earnestly hoped was false.

What was more, Arlek's mind cast back to the battle against Biel-Tan and Yvraine in the webway. He and his men had been holding against the eldar assault in a nearby passage of that eternal labyrinth, when he had felt Yvraine's promise, and the rise in Ahriman's hearts, followed by the weight of her betrayal and his brother's brief moment of all too human despair. He did not have to witness it with his own eyes to understand its significance, to feel the pain inflicted on the legion in those crucial seconds. How could the prospect of peace hope to survive that day? The emissary of Ynnead had held the prospect of that bright future in her hand, and smashed it against the floor for no reason other than spite. What self-respecting sorcerer of the 15th would not want to exact their revenge, and rip the knowledge of how it was done from Yvraine's mind? What eldar could be blamed for assuming every member of the Thousand Sons they saw would leap at the opportunity to extract bloody justice on their misbegotten kind?

Perhaps one day it would be different, perhaps. But in his soul Arlek knew it would likely never be so. Certainly not today. It was just one more tragedy in a tragic universe. And though he may feel sympathy, even respect, for the creature before him, he would not allow sentiment to blind him to reality. So there would be blood after all. Steeling his hearts and focusing his mind he delivered a single psychic word of command to his host.  
"Fire."


	4. Chapter 4

Fire erupted from the spires and gangway as shot after shot bore down upon the unsuspecting eldar. Arlek could taste their surprise and confusion, not just at being ambushed but that such a thing could happen to them, the supposed masters of stealth, with the keenest eyes and ears in the galaxy and a farseer at their back. Arlek thought it would do their kind good to be reminded of their fallibility, if they survived the day. The black guardians took the brunt of the ambush, wave after wave of las fire overwhelming them. Their psykers may have been able to protect them with their aeldari arts, had Arlek's two guardian rubricae not brought their guns to bear on the farseer and the warlocks. In the split second confusion of the ambush the eldar had to choose between warding their kin, or themselves. As with so many creatures in a moment of crisis, they chose self-preservation. It was the rational choice, an eldar on the path of the witch was worth dozens, even hundreds of their kin. But he wondered if that brought them any comfort as they watched their warriors cut ragged by fire. Not even eldar reflexes could save them here.

But Arlek did not fire. Instead his mind coiled out across the battlefield, skirting past the farseer and their retinue, and finding instead the two falcon tanks. Working his thoughts into the very fabric of the vehicles his perception slid along circuits and through plates of waithbone, past the collective wards some optimistic soul had thought could keep minds like his at bay and into their respective engines. Focusing his mind he saw beyond mere parts and gracefully spinning components. He gazed down beyond what any eye could see, into the infinitesimally small building blocks of reality that the generators were bending against nature to keep the tanks afloat.

Banishing all distractions, he settled into the fourth enumeration, aware only of what was absolutely necessary to accomplish his goal and preserve his life. His mind, as calm and even as a millpond, untroubled by interfering emotion or thought, focused on those subatomic particles. With a hand as delicate as gossamer and as precise as a scalpel, he seized these particles and began to turn their motion back upon themselves, faster and faster, firmer and firmer, drawing in more and more matter from about them. What had once been anti-gravity now had a gravitational force far stronger than nature would normally allow. The sharp juxtaposition between the engines purpose, and what was actually happening created a cascade of fault lines that grew and grew, spawning an arcing energy that seared through the fabric of the engine before collapsing back in on itself with a roar like a torrential waterfall made no less terrible for its miniature scale.

Pulling his mind back to the fray and falling into the third enumeration, only a single beat of one of his hearts had passed. The bodies of the last guardians had yet to strike the ground when the tanks seemed to quiver alarmingly, before falling to the ground with a heavy thud that an onlooker would seldom have expected from such a graceful vehicle. But the quaking did not stop. Instead they seemed to drift apart slowly, a brilliant white light pouring from every crack and crevice until suddenly they erupted in glowing clouds of phosphorescent fire. The detonation engulfed the farseer and the warlocks, but as the fire died Arlek saw the four of them dashing for cover, the remnants of fading kine shields glowing with the heat, one figure visibly struggling, though whether that was from strain or injury was unclear.

By now the eldar were starting to return fire, those five indistinct shapes that had worked their way into the molten remnants of the buildings below were responding with unsettlingly accurate shots. Arlek watched as his mortal servants began to fall. Miniature holes lancing through the eye pieces of their gas masks, and erupting from the backs of their heads with clinical precision. The lack of blood somehow made it all the more chilling. Rangers. Valorous though his soldiers may have been, they lacked the precision to counter these xeno snipers. His rubricae however, were another matter. Ten thousand years of experience, sophisticated archeotech equipment and warp born enhancements that far exceeded anything mere flesh could achieve, would easily allow them to go shot for shot with the alien scouts.

Willing his guards to fire on the sharpshooters Arlek watched as miniature eruptions of living green warpfire blossomed on the surface of an invisible shield, arcane touched bolter shells erupting prematurely.  
"Deal with that shield!" Commanded Arlek as a whisper in Orisian's mind. No sooner had he projected this command, than an arcing torrent of black edged lightning sparked from Orisian's hand, pounding into the barrier maintained by the farseer and the warlocks. A spectrum of impossible colours cascaded from the impact in a rain of terrible light. But the barrier held. Were it not for the dispassionate calm of the third enumeration Arlek would have scolded his junior's blunt attempts to overpower the defences. If Orisian believed his power had grown to be able to overwhelm a farseer's, let alone one aided by warlocks, by brute force the man was sorely mistaken. What was worse, he had revealed his position. For a moment Arlek found himself wishing he had brought brother Rhydel instead, or any of the other sorcerers who answered to him.

As if to prove his point a tremendous torrent of psychic force tore from the farseer's position, smashing into the side of the spire like a monstrous fist. Debris exploded out from the impact, fissures running out along the wall like cracked glass. A smattering of crimson jacketed mortal soldiers tumbled out of the breach, already limp and lifeless. But not a single rubricae appeared to fall. Arelek could feel the minds of his brothers already elsewhere in the spire. It seemed Orisian could at least remember his astartes training.

The crackle of psychic energy again filled the air, but Arlek's attention was drawn to yet more shapes emerging from the encroaching sandstorm. Had the farseer not been on the field Arlek would readily have known the whole enemy contingent. But the void in the warp was causing him issues. It was not as total as that cause by the null maidens, he could still summon his powers with focus, but his near unconscious awareness of all around him was suffering. Still, he did not need his psychic powers to tell what these creatures were. Each elegant shape stood roughly three times the height of their more normal kin, with legs even longer in proportion than an eldar. Strange distended heads, utterly devoid of any features were unnervingly still as the colossal spectres strode gracefully over the sands. Bodies of painted wraithbone supported great weapons upon each shoulder and each held a terrible sword in their grip, blades the length of a tank hummed with alien power and gleamed with eldar craftsmanship. Wraithlords.

To make matters worse a barrage of heavy weapons fire erupted from the sandstorm, showering the walkway with las fire. From the sheer volume of fire, and the angles at which the shots were coming from, Arlek could tell they were under fire from at least four scatter lasers. But, since there were no obvious shapes on the edge of the storm he concluded this fire was coming from grav platforms, not vehicles. What had he run into? Warlocks, wraithlords, tanks, grav platforms, a farseer and who knew what else. He had come here with a small expeditionary force. He had encountered the lead element of an army!

He did not need to issue the order to take cover, his men were already hunkering down behind every scrap of protection. Occasionally a lucky strike would rip asunder some poor mortal fool, but this was not fire meant to kill, only supress. Reaching out with his mind to the heavy weapons teams in his mortal contingent he planted the order in them for all those in the towers with missile launchers to load frag, and for those on the bridge to load krak rounds. Implanting firing solutions directly into the minds of his servants he ordered those in the towers to fire first. A volley of well-coordinated missile fire erupted simultaneously from each position, tiny vapour trails streaking across the sky, impacting in a flurry of booming explosions all along the positions where Arlek believed the grav platforms to be firing from. The pause in their barrage was enough to tell Arlek his fire had been effective. In an instant, almost propelled by a will that was not their own, the bridge team's missile launchers rose. One was picked off by a ranger as soon as his head emerged from cover, but the others let loose their shots upon the two wraithlords. A series of ear shattering snaps filled the air as the krak rounds found their targets, accompanied by brief blinding flashes.

The faultless surface of the wraithlords was marred by burn marks, hairline cracks spreading out from the points of impact. But other than briefly staggering the two automata the shots did little to impede their progress.  
"Off the bridge!" Commanded Arlek in the minds of his men, not having to possess seer sight to know what was coming next. His troops scattered left and right, half heading for each spire with a sense of urgency implanted by Arlek's psychic command. Mere moment's latter another titanic blast of psychic energy lashed out, this time striking the walkway, tearing away the central section with such vigour that it was not debris which rained down, but dust. The remains of any mortal soldiers caught in the explosion became little more than ash. Even Arlek and his guards only just made it into the second spire, sadly not the one they had landed upon. Nor was it the one containing brother Orisian.

But at that moment Arlek felt a slight tremble under his feet. Dashing to a small window he could see the ground crack under the farseer's location. It seemed Orisian had learned his lesson. Arlek could taste his brother's psychic strands of energy forcing the earth apart. The ground under the building shifted and collapsed, the sudden jarring change in the terrain opened up small gaps in the shields coverage, gaps the rubricae ruthlessly exploited. Bolter rounds burning in the aetheric energies of the warp tore into the openings, rending the rangers apart in miniature detonations of green fire. The farseer and their coven of warlocks however, we deeper in the building, protected and likely withdrawing. Arlek knew Orisian would be made to pay for this assault, and the gross display of the lightning bolt would still haunt his brother.

Linking his thought's to Orisian Arlek provided hasty words of caution.  
"Rise into the highest enumerations you can and seek shelter. You are an obvious target, the farseer is likely to assault your mind directly!" Before Orisian could reply the building shook with another great impact. One of the wraithlords had delivered a savage cut to the side of the spire, his great weapon carving through the outer wall like butter. Against the scale of the mighty building, not even a warithlord could hope to bring it down easily. But the terrible vessel was trying to cut away at the supports beneath Arlek and his men, clearly trying to collapse the corridors above that the war walker could not reach.  
"All launchers load krak!" He commanded in irresistible thoughts to his host. "All rubricae, focus bolter fire on the fault lines!...Fire!" Another barrage of rocket fire erupted from both spires, all focusing on a single wraithlord, able to fire in relative confidence as fresh suppressive fire had not yet been brought to bear. The sound of the detonations alone was almost enough to cause Arlek pain, despite the protection of his helmet, and it's photofilters did little to lessen the brightness of the blast.

The distinctive low crack of bolter's firing followed on even before the flash had faded. The wraithlord began to correct it's faltering footing as shell after shell poured into each miniscule fault in it's armour. Supernaturally enhanced bolter rounds, fire by blasphemously augmented warriors, seeking out these cracks like a shark with the scent on blood. Cracks became holes, holes became fissures, until eventually a shower of sparks lanced from the back of the mighty warrior's cranial unit. The fire burned brief and bright, the alien circuity within melting under the heat of the systems failure, until eventually it guttered and died. The wraithlord itself let go of its blade, still imbedded in the wall, and collapsed backwards with a glacial slowness. As it smashed into the ground with the clang of a mistuned bell Arlek could feel a brief flash of emotion lance out through this void in the warp, apprehension mixed with sorrow. It was gone in an instant, eldar mental discipline swiftly reasserting itself. But for such a sensation to cross even the farseer's commendable warp vacuum, indicated a large host.

Down below the second wraithlord was beating a hasty retreat. It was curious to see such a large construct run, but it did, and with all the elegance one would expect from the eldar, even trying to weave in an effort to evade the krak missiles that came after it. The eldar forces were in retreat, withdrawing to the cover of the storm. But Arlek knew this would not last long, and tellingly he had not seen the farseer abandon their cover. Arlek was surprised at the deployment of the wraithlords, it spoke of haste, and after Arlek had planted his mark on the farseer's psychic presence, their advance had only quickened. They were in a hurry.

It was not long before the noise of engines filled the air, a surprisingly quiet, even tone that spoke of xenos craftsmanship. But despite its subtlety the sound still carried over the building storm, which was now visibly arcing occasional bolts of lightning within its core, and still drifting closer towards the battle. Could that be what was causing the eldar such haste? Arlek wondered. But soon he was forced to confront a much more immediate problem, jet bikes flew out of the cover of the outer reaches of the sandstorm, a mixture of both the more common one-man variants, and the heavier vyper model with their rear mounted heavy weapons platform and dedicated gunner. Their sleek forms moved with a speed mortal eyes struggled to comprehend, twisting and turning like erratic snakes in the sky. To make matters worse, Arlek's host had no airburst rounds to deal with this issue.

But where mortal men failed, astartes would triumph. First Arlek reached into the thoughts of every one of his mortal followers, taking control of their limbs and fingers. This was no mere suggestion but direct puppeteering, and the psychic strain involved was increased to match. In most cases it was inefficient, far better to let each soldier to act on his own, but for this to work he needed total coordination. Picking out a single jet bike he watched it bank around, every single las gun in his cohort tracking it until just the right moment and… fire! A single terrible volley erupted from the towers with inhuman synchronicity. Had every rifle tried to hit the bike it would have been child's play for the eldar pilot to bank away from the sluggish las rounds. But instead the fire was acting like a giant shotgun blast from innumerable barrels. The rider was not facing a pinpoint accurate shot, but instead a wall of burning light. Pull up, dive, left, right, it made no difference, several shots would still hit him. This moment of realisation was all the unfortunate rider was allowed before his vehicle was turned into a spiralling, smouldering wreck, his already dead body being thrown from the tumbling fuselage with such force as to smash him against the wall of a spire like a swatted fly.

Meanwhile, rubricae were working in pairs to deal with these new attackers. Using their superhuman, even supernatural, abilities along with millennia of experience they could fire accurately on such fast-moving targets. However, the eldar's evasive manoeuvres made this a challenge. As such, they would use an old but effective trick. One marine would fire a burst aimed just off centre of where his target would be. To evade this the bike would have to adjust course, but by making the shot off centre the rubricae could influence which direction the bike would turn. In half a breath his partner would fire into that space, meaning the jetbike was trying to escape right into oncoming bolter rounds. It was far from 100% effective, but without proper AA guns it was the best that could be managed.

The jetbikes responded with strafing shuriken fire. But firing from windows and other heavy cover Arlek's men were well protected. That was, until the vyper's opened up their guns as well. Each one of them had a starcannon mounted in the rear. A grandiose title perhaps, it was hardly as powerful as a sun. But to those close enough, it would feel like it. Each one let out a tightly controlled orb of pulsing green plasma, more stable than anything any Imperial artisan had created since the time of the Emperor himself. They tore into the walls of the ancient spires, boiling away walls that were older than most intelligent species, before erupting in cascading sphere of plasmatic liquid hot enough to melt flesh inside it's armour. Arlek watched as mortal men erupted in pillars of green flame from the sheer heat, flesh sloughing from their skin like tallow. Even his ever-present guardian, Sirax, was affected when he placed himself instinctively between Arlek and the blast, paint burning off of ceramite to reveal bare metal and ceramics on his left side.

"Rubricae, hold positions, non astartes troops shelter in interior rooms until my order!" Commanded Arlek to his host's minds. Striding to a window he drew his bolt pistol, instinctively raising it up and firing a single shot with barely a thought given to aiming. The round tore across the air and smashed right into the pilot's cockpit of a vyper. Blood spattered against the view pane and the craft plunged towards the earth, erupting in a ball of flame. Suddenly, Arlek's mind went back in an instant to Prospero, wearing the red and ivory armour he wished he had never had to shed. The world was already starting to burn, screaming filled the air and the roar of Imperial bike engines was tearing towards him. Golden, glistening vehicles, bearing mankind's mightiest warriors, the custodes. He and a gaggle of corvidae brothers were picking them off like targets at a shooting gallery, even brief future sight allowing them to know the path each screaming bike would take and where to place the shot. One round, one kill, it was almost insultingly easy.

Suddenly he was back in the here and now, the sands outside the spires now gently starting to be sucked in by the encroaching maelstrom. With his near future sight returning to him so readily, becoming as much a part of his vision as his perception of the present, it meant more and more of the warp's infernal energies were leaking in. The farseer's void was starting to crack at the edges. Extending his perception to those rubricae closest to him his little cadre resumed their fire, with terrible efficiency, every twist and every turn anticipated. The jet bikes had to climb higher and higher just to stay alive, their return fire becoming less and less effective with every rise.

But the farseer wasn't through with them yet. As Arlek continued to channel his prescient knowledge through his ashen rubricae he suddenly felt Orisian reaching out to him through the warp, there were no words, only a sense of tremendous effort, urgency and danger. Arlek could sense his brother's mind crying out for aid. Clearly the attack he feared, had begun. Arlek had hoped brother Orisian would have been able to defend his mind against the farseer by now, though he by no means expected the man to be able to go onto the attack. But he had hoped that millennia of guarding himself against the intrusions of Chaos had given this man a little more mental resilience, seemingly not. But as disheartened by this display as he was, he would not let a brother fall.

Withdrawing within the building, Arlek focused his thoughts upon those of his brother, the man's presence in the warp irregularly flaring in effort as he battled against the psychic assault. Detaching his subtle body from its cage of flesh and bone with an ease many stepped from their front door, Arlek found his consciousness drifting above the battlefield. To best fight this mental war he moved his perception closer to the warp. He no longer saw the fray as he did through mortal eyes, it's combatants, weapons and terrain were an ever-shifting sea of colours, sounds and other sensations the mundane body could never comprehend. It was only his formidable experience and extensive training that allowed him to understand this maelstrom of the senses. But by now, it was as second nature to him, as readily understandable as his own mortal eyes.

All around him tendrils of the warp itself were starting to snake in, the great void that had kept the madness at bay was starting to collapse. The cause was not immediately apparent, but Arlek wagered it had something to do with the slowly encroaching storm. Removed from the narrow perceptions of flesh he could see the storm as it was in the warp, and to his horror it was no weaker in this world than it was in the material one. He could see the insane currents of energy spiralling in gemotrically impossible patterns, with ever greater speed and force. Colours that defied imagination erupting like stars, and dying just as spectacularly, whilst the fabric of reality itself bent and buckled like an overstressed bulkhead. The winds may not have yet whipped up into a miniaturised warp storm, but it was approaching that state faster than any sane man would welcome. Arlek knew he would fare better in such an environment than most, but no man with even a shred of wisdom or caution would welcome the onset of such a phenomenon. Now the reason for the eldar's recklessness was clear. Better to hastily assault him than delay and stand in what that wall of swirling sand was swiftly becoming.

But standing out against the chaos, was a shape of purest order. It hung in the aether like a diamond. Precise, robust and gleaming with an iridescent light that somehow made the vibrancy of what surrounded it seem dull, and even dirty. The lesser shards that surrounded it seemed almost to fade into obscurity in comparison, and it was this utterly alien presence on the field, that was besieging Orisian's mind. Arlek rushed to his brother's aid, sheltering him in ever shifting arcane wards, throbbing with power no mortal was ever meant to possess. As he did a lance of pure psychic light erupted from the crystal like mind, striking Arlek's wards with a force that would have broken, not just the will but the very mind, of many lesser men. It drove against his protection like a mining drill confronted with an unexpectedly hard mineral. Until eventually the attack seemed to freeze before erupting in an incandescent shower of ice and glass. Normally, Arlek would have been able to feel the thoughts and feelings of any mind he encountered without difficulty, even most people who thought themselves protected presented little obstacle to him now. But this creature's thoughts were entirely hidden from him, he could no more understand the will of this mind than he could understand the will of a rock. To crack such a mind open would be a feat even under ideal circumstances, and these were not ideal circumstances. But despite it all he could feel the painfully anonymous surfaces of the eldar's mind turn toward him, unseen eyes falling upon him, dismissing Orisian as little more than a distraction.

Arlek did not have to be a psyker to understand what had transpired. The attack on Orisian had been nothing but bate to draw Arlek's otherwise hidden mind out. Now the farseer had sight of their real prey. In an instant Arlek was beset by a flurry of psychic strikes. No single one of them enough to bring him down, but massed together like a sea, they presented a real danger. Each blow was delivered with clinical precision, but it was the cold indifference of it all that most struck him. The farseer's mental discipline created the illusion that he was being attacked by a robot. A mind that was not merely protected, but entirely absent of emotion, and possessed of an insultingly casual distain for any not of its own kind. But Arlek was determined not to be easy prey. Rising into the higher enumerations his mind became a machine of ruthless calculation and inhuman discipline, able to both withstand and use powers that would consume the souls of lesser psykers. The farseer's barrage seemed to slow, his mind able to pick out each and every one of the rain of blows, and counter it with a precision to rival that of his foe. The result was an eruption of infinite colour that rained down around them with the corrosive stench of acid.

Arlek swiftly retaliated, responding not with a thousand cuts, but rather a single mailed fist. A novice may have mistaken his attack of raw power, to be the act of an undisciplined amateur. But the mere fact he could summon these un-tempered energies of the warp in such vast quantities, without either his flesh or mind being corrupted, hinted at an artistry he was currently concealing. The sheer weight of his blow caused the beautifully armoured surface of the eldar's mind to ripple and shift, like a stone thrown into a perfectly still pool. It was these ripples and eddies that Arlek focused his attention upon, their course indicating something of the structure of the manifold runes and wards necessary to sustain such an impressive and durable defence. As he watched, he could see these key points move and shift, in an effort to defy analysis, their course seemingly random and unfathomable. But Arlek's Prospereen studies, and his plundered knowledge of eldar secrets, allowed him to see the hidden pattern within. One that followed a xenos logic and tradition that no mere mortal would ever conceive, let alone comprehend. But he did.

But no sooner had he determined the pattern of his foe's defences, than he found his own attack being turned upon him. The farseer twisted the core of the flow of energy Arlek was using, reversing its currents and sucking in the rest of the energy about it before it roared back towards Arlek with even greater intensity. Turning his wards about in a labyrinthine series of arcs and shifting spirals he was able to return the power of the attack back into the shapeless energy of the warp, hands and mind working faster than they had been forced to for years. But masked in the now dissipating energy of the warp was a blade of purest thought that flew with an almost hypnotic grace. It struck Arlek's defences with a chilling silence, slicing toward his mind with an inevitability that might inspire terror in a less disciplined man. He was dimly aware of pain lancing through him, as his mind banished the distracting sensation itself in favour of simply noting the damage. Though no true wound had been inflicted upon his mortal body, one of his two hearts ceased functioning, clenching hard at the neural shock and refusing to open again.

Already the farseer was on the attack again, seeking to exploit this gap even as Arlek hastily reassembled his protection. Striking at the previous breach the farseer drew a cold gasp from Arlek's mind as he poured what energy he could muster into re-establishing his wards, his mind bent at the effort, but he forced away another blow by the slimmest of margins. But another attack was already behind this one, yet another point of pressure on a creaking wall. Shifting his protections Arlek was able to deflect the worst of it away from his subtle body once more, but he could steel feel the cold touch of an unnatural frost gracing his cheek as the terrible powers drew far too close for comfort. To remain on the defensive was to die. So, without pause, Arlek launched a small, restrained blow against a key nexus in the farseer's shifting wards. Gone was the vast power of his previous attack, replaced instead with needle like precision. Introducing miniscule strands of precisely controlled warp energy into the farseer's defences, he span and twisted these tiny eddies to interrupt the harmonious flow of power at this key junction and like a rock in the stream, he changed the current's course. Suddenly a cascade of failing wards spread out across the perfect façade of the eldar's inhuman defence. Arlek knew it would take far more than this to undo a farseer, but if he could hurt them, he could kill them.

Neither he, nor the farseer, allowed the changing flow of the battle to reach their minds, Arlek did not allow false confidence to drive him into recklessness. Nor did his foe permit their setbacks to drive them into a state of desperation or worry. Instead, the two continued to duel in a battle that could be more readily expressed in alien algebraic formulae than words. Probe, deception, faint, attack, evade, reinforce. The pair battled on, a mixture of swordsmen, mathematician, monk and sorcerer all at once. The universe seemed to bend around their minds, the flow of time and the fortitude of reality already weak in this warp soaked world, now being broken by the sheer power of their duel and the constant use of their prescient skills to read, change and re read the course of the immediate future in every second of this fight. Effect would randomly precede cause, wounds would be inflicted from blows that had not yet been struck, then be undone when the eventual attack was somehow negated despite the duellists best efforts to close the paradox, events were replaying time and time again at random intervals. Shadows of their minds replicated out across infinity, their thoughts and their actions as they were now, minutes ago, minutes ahead. Each playing out against some unknown hypothetical. One theory of time stated that every decision, every action, created an alternate universe, one for every possible decision that could have been made. Some even believed that reading the strands of the future was in fact the art of glimpsing briefly into these alternate realities, not predicting the future but instead simply seeing how things were in another reality.

Arlek thought that perhaps there was no better evidence of such a theory than this very fight. All around him, stretching out beyond the sight of even his subtle body, was every possible incarnation of this battle of the minds. These were not mere shades of what could be, they were. He could feel his soul drifting apart in a pain he had not felt since his battle against the flesh change. Even in the higher enumerations Arlek struggled to hold the fear that realisation caused at bay. This was no simple rebellion of the mortal body, his very essence was being torn asunder, his consciousness being rent and twisted like those of the decedent eldar suspended in the moment of consumption forever. He could feel every wound born by every version of himself, a hurricane of pain from countless thousands all poured into a single mind. His grip upon the higher enumerations creaked and groaned at the strain. But even that pain was as nothing compared to what he felt as one of his countless forms died. Pain, no matter how terrible, was temporary. A disciplined mind could withstand it. But as a part of him fell away, pain was replaced by loss. A shred of his soul was simply gone, and with it some vital element of himself. Was it a memory, a skill, a thought, a principle, an emotion? He did not know. He might never know. For with its death, so too went the memory of what it was. Replaced only with an undefinable, maddening sense of absence.

Things around him only collapsed further, as a number of these battling shadows became aware of one another, other potential duellists seeing what he saw. Suddenly, the walls of potentiality collapsed, a mind from one strand of eternity would lunge at one from another, and another, and another. Some passing through each other like mist, others colliding in storms of impossibility, as realities collapsed into one another with a creative devastation of possibility that laughed at the stars. Colour, sound, taste, smell, touch. All became irrelevant as maelstroms of sensation burst out at every detonation, waves of possibility carrying every feeling possible from that reality at the edge of its creation, smashing into Arlek like waves upon a cliff. Universe after universe was birthed, aged and died in a fraction of a second, the maddening sensations of emotion and power from the collapse of every reality engulfing Arlek.

But, even as the structure of his mind began to collapse he still endured, tracing the essence of the farseer that bore the same strands of eternity as his own. He believed, he hoped, that a mind less use to the madness of the warp than his, would suffer even worse that he was. That in this moment they might be destroyed. Careening through the hurricane of what was, what could be, and what had been, he found that diamond mind. Its surface was broken and burnt, shards of ruined perfection falling away like rain, until at last the image collapsed, showing what lay within.

What stared back at Arlek was a feminine form, every inch of the subtle perfection their arrogant kind boasted so proudly of. Black and white robes flowed artistically in the winds of madness, poise and control that seemed to disregard the doom swirling around them, and a face mortal minds could barely dream of. The elegant youthfulness of her face and pale skin was accentuated by the lines of her jaw and nose that seemed less evolved and more sculpted by an artist's expert hand. But this was sharply juxtaposed by eyes of terrible wisdom and experience. Ones that could glow with the most tender pity and patience for her kin, but which looked at Arlek with hate… and fear.

This image of perfection lasted only for an instant, before fractures began to run across her ivory body, like cracks in an ancient china doll. From the faults ran a sweet, viscous liquid, it carried the iron taste of blood underneath the faint aroma of a field of alien flowers. As sections of her body began to fall away Arlek could see a single tear run down her broken cheek whilst some unknown power seemed to stretch this one moment on for eternity. He could not move to strike her down, he could not move to turn away. In the reflections of reality all around him, he could see himself as she did. His armour collapsing slowly, revealing nothing but light underneath, the unmoving face of his helm given animation in this strange place, wearing an expression of pain. Not his own suffering, or even the torment of the body. But an emotional rending for someone other than himself. Gone was the mechanical green glow of his helmet's eyes, replaced instead with the shifting vibrancy of his own. His eyes emitted an ethereal white light, which seemed to shift internally with phantasmal echoes of impossible colour.

The universe about them slowly collapsed, all that remained was one another, and their infinite battling shadows. But only in one reality, in this reality, did these two foes stand in utter silence, staring into one another as their very souls slowly unravelled. No words came to Arlek's lips, the vulgarity of speech had no place in this moment. Instead, almost without thinking, he raised what remained of his arm out towards her, the floating fragments of his form held together by memory alone. The remembrance of why they were here long since forgotten in the destruction of his mind. Who was this person, what was this place, what had brought them here, who was he? Every echo of what had built him, what defined him, was gone.

He knew only, that they were here, and that they were dying. With grief overwhelming every other emotion in the farseer's eyes, her own hand began to shift hesitantly at her side. Where it would go, Arlek would never know. For as his hand reached towards what remained of her cheek for a purpose he did not understand, every other reality came to an end, the only potential that remained was this one, terrible moment. Just as the farseer's lips began to part in speech the universe went blank. Not black, not white, but blank. A total absence of perception tore into Arlek's mind and all he could feel was the rushing sensation of his and the farseer's minds tearing away from one another at colossal speed.

Suddenly, a wall of sound hit him, a thousand oceans roaring in his ears, as every path that could have been collapsed back into this one, the only one that had survived, shards of his soul that were little more than smoke rushed back in, recollections he had no knowledge of ever possessing returned to him as if they had never left. Sensations, thoughts, feelings overwhelmed him as his mind plummeted back towards his mortal body. How, or why this was happening, he did not know. But there was little time to question it when his consciousness hit his flesh with the force of a falling star. He felt the sensation of being on his back, his skin was cold, his vision sharper than it had any right to be in mundane eyes. His hearts were not beating… His hearts were not beating

A jolt of pain ran through him as the auto defibrillators in his armour discharged into his chest. Still, his hearts were silent. With his last few strands of consciousness he bent the aetheric energies of the warp into his chest, mending tissue that had suffered no wound, but which had instead had the very energy of life leached out of them. Again, his body contorted in pain as electricity ran through his hearts, spasming them into frantic life. Rising as if pulled by a string Arlek's body felt the repercussive pain of the near destruction, and restoration of his soul all over again. Every fibre of his being burned with an unnatural fire. Arcing back and turning his head towards the roof Arlek felt a surge of agony rise up through his body before erupting from his mouth as a terrible, wailing scream. All that seemed to exist was the cacophonous, bellowing torment, and its sister call from across the battlefield.

The noise echoed on, long after his lungs had been emptied of all air, psychic power alone blasting out into the sky. Around him, the void in the warp which had already been leaking, collapsed. The great ocean ran in like a tsunami, Arlek could see one of his mortal soldiers staggering back past his chamber, clawing away his own face in a fit of frantic, terrified laughter. Even in his mundane body the world seemed to change colour as the immaterium returned. Rising into the second enumeration as his howl subsided Arlek stalked with a purposeful stride back into the battle. The field was one of utter chaos. The ground outside was littered with eldar dead, the corridors within were similarly choked with his fallen peons. Suddenly there was a sensation of movement to his left. Spinning with inhuman speed Arlek saw the bone white armour of a howling banshee tearing towards him, red mane flowing behind them like a snake in a stream, blade so keen as to cut a raindrop from the sky. Darting to the side Arlek avoided the warriors lunge, before surging forwards with a speed the warrior was unprepared for. The eldar's ribs cracked at the weight of the impact of an armoured astartes moving fast. In that stunned moment Arlek caught their thrusting arm beneath his own, locking their blade in place before using his free hand to smash his foe's elbow so hard both armour and bone shattered. In that moment the xeno knew what it was like to scream in pain, rather than to cry in an effort to spread terror in the feeble hearted. Then, without pause Arlek swung his free hand back in a closed fist, smashing into the banshee's head so hard that fragments of bone disconnected from the skull and arced into the eldar's brain, killing the creature instantly.

Before the body had even gone limp Arlek took the alien blade into his own hand, throwing it down the corridor like a javelin. There was no target, but as the weapon arced through the air another banshee rounded the corner at the last moment, only to be lanced through the chest with such force that their body was impaled upon the wall like a doll. So, his future sight had survived the ordeal. Walking down the corridor he passed by the fallen bodies of his men, unconcerned. The rubricae stood firm, and they were what mattered. Some exhibited the marks of alien forgetfulness, cuts, burns and even a sword which had cut clean through a marine's armour, it's tip protruding from his back, grip jutting out awkwardly from his chest. It took more than that to kill a warrior whose body had long since abandoned him. Dust did not bleed.

Arlek could feel Orisian's mind holding on, his troop had fallen back within their tower, but he was standing firm. But as Arlek reached a new vantage point from which to survey the battle he found four figures awaiting, three more banshees and their exarch. Arlek did not need to see the superior craftsmanship of their two savage blades, or the marks upon their fine armour to know what he was facing. The faint echoes of generations of wisdom, and the whispers of long dead ghosts locked into that ancient armour were enough. Behind him Arlek could hear the rumbling stampede of his two protectors dashing to his side, but he had no need of them. Drawing out his burning archeotech blade Arlek levelled its devastating tip at the exarch's head.  
"Flee. Or none shall ever learn the wisdom of your armour again." But the only response he received were four voices raised in an ear-piercing shout as they tore towards him, each trying to shatter his mind before they even touched steel. Pathetic, even without the protection of his helm they could do little to assail his mind.

He considered simply using the powers of the warp to deal with them all in little more than a thought. But, he was an astartes first and would not neglect those skills. More to the point, he was unwilling to expose his psyche to the immaterium's more violent powers so soon after almost losing his very identity to it. Instead, he just let them come. The three less experienced warriors had been expecting to fight a lumbering wall of metal and muscle. Arlek could taste their surprise when he flowed around them like water, deflecting their blows by the smallest of margins, only to subtly twist their blades to create giant openings. But every time he was poised to deliver the killing blow, a pair of mirror blades would stop him, the exarch desperately leaping from vulnerability to vulnerability, protecting her less able sisters.

The dance continued, a carnival of pirouettes, lunges, leaps, cuts, rolls and ripostes. The swirling red hair crests, graceful bodies contorting in beautiful shapes, the glint of metal cutting through the air. It was a beautiful display, even in this maelstrom of smoke, sand and blood. And in the centre of it all was Arlek, feet firmly planted on the ground, sliding between every attack with chilling control and insulting ease, his grim mawed helm rarely even turning to acknowledge an incoming strike. Could these children not recognise an astartes of the first founding when they saw one? What made any of them but the exarch think they stood a chance against over ten thousand years of experience? Even the masterful form of the exarch had to reckon against his future sight and the biological superiority of the astartes.

The first break in this seemingly endless dance was when Arlek was able to force one of the lesser banshees out of the protecting reach of her exarch. In a single pirouette Arlek cracked her guard open wide, before reversing the turn of his blade even as his body still span, plunging his weapon deep into her chest at such an angle that the flat of his blade carried her body along with the spin rather than cut her clean in half. By the time he had come back around to face the main battle one of the dead banshee's sisters was launching a wild charge, fuelled by anger and revenge. But she found herself only plunging her sword into the still standing body of her friend, just as Arlek withdrew his blade with an unnatural ease. In that half second of shock at what she had done, the banshee froze, more than enough time for Arlek to launch a well-placed lunge over the shoulder of the dead aspect warrior, and through the eyepiece of the one who now had her sword lodged in a friend's torso. The two collapsed with an unsettling quiet, still joined to one another as the second warrior's dead hands held the sword which connected them with a vice like grip.

The combatants circled one another for a few moments, assessing each other's stance before the exarch gave a sharp gesture for her one remaining soldier to withdraw, this would be a duel between experts, she would not risk her inexperienced ward against a veteran lord of chaos, not after what had just happened. Arlek ignored the running form of the lesser warrior, he even ignored the sharp blast of a single bolter round discharging into her, erupting in a tightly controlled hail of flesh and wraithbone. They had their chance to run, Arlek's guards would not permit them to change their minds now.

Turning her unmoving mask to face him, Arlek could feel the look of scorn and hatred underneath, it burned through her eyes with an unconcealable intensity, a rare lapse in the scornful aloofness her kind was more known for. The exarch charged, her mirror blades swirling in a waterfall of strikes. It was a hypnotic display, even in the heat of combat Arlek had to take a moment to appreciate the way she moved and struck, using each blade to cover the weakness inherent in the other, whilst simultaneously exploiting the advantage of her two weapons to embark upon a savage assault, wagering Arlek's one blade could not keep up with two simultaneous attacks. Such a shame she was wrong.

Compared to the farseer the exarch's mind was a fragile thing, unguarded and undisciplined. Arlek could sense her every intention, her every thought and instinct in the wild display. Not only that, but her body was betraying her. By remaining in the second enumeration Arlek could identify every tiny little marker in her stance and movements, reading her body like her read her mind. He may have only had one blade, but she was telling him how to defeat her with every breath she took. To make matters worse for the warrior Arlek's prescient foresight was undermining her at every turn. Every time she struck there he was, deflecting each blow with mathematical precision, until eventually she found a hole, only to discover he was not there anymore. Time after time the woman struck, forced to take more and more risks to take advantage of ever illusory opportunities, pushing further, further and further until there he was… Leering maw inches from her face, dispassionate mechanical green eyes staring into her own, blade rising up along her torso.

She was an exarch, she had died before, but something about the way his blade carved into her flesh filled her soul with an infernal cold that froze her soul to the point of burning. It was strange to her, new, curious and terrible. But nothing could amount to her fear when the tip of his blade collided with her spirit stone, shattering it as easily as glass. In one, brief, snapshot of eternity the exarch felt her many souls being torn apart, Slaanesh greedily claiming what had been denied to her for so long. With each moment a personality, a life lived, a collection of memories and experiences, was torn away in an unending scream of silence. She felt everything leaving her, everything that identified who and what she was. Until she was nothing more than a woman, kneeling in a slowly growing pool of her own blood. The exarch she had been was gone, she had entered this field a respected and famed warrior of over ten thousand years. Now she was just a frail thing, no more than a thousand years old, her name and lustre gone, just a host without the soul that had come to define her. She felt the rush of acrid, toxic air as Arlek ripped off her helmet, forcing the former exarch to remove her mask tore away the last shred of what she was. Now, once again, she was, just another eldar, forced to return to her small existence. Her final thoughts were of how empty it felt. He did not pause to allow her last words. He simply granted her the mercy of a quick death, removing her head in a single elegant sweep.

With barely a second thought Arlek strode towards the edge of the platform, his guards at his heel. The sandstorm tore around him, the howling wind distorting the echoes of las rifles and bolters. Miniature shards of vibrant lightning danced randomly through the air, snapping in a fading cadence like cruel and distant laughter. The advanced auspexes mounted in his helm allowed him to stare through the maddening sands further than most. The broken bodies of aspect warriors littered the earth below, the burnt and twisted wrecks of several of their hosts vehicles smouldered in amongst them like boiling rocks that had plummeted from the sky. Whatever had happened, had cost them dearly, but they were inside the towers now. Above the fleeting shapes of swirling jetbikes could be made out in the storm, whilst a great winged form arced above them, surveying the field. Even as little more than a shadow Arlek knew what that was, the farseer was still here and a sizeable host had guarded her. Such an endeavour would not be undertaken without an Autarch. Raising his bolt pistol with a cruel grin concealed beneath his cruel helm, his guards also took aim.

Then, hell broke loose. The psychic build up of wyrd power in the storm erupted in a maddening display of incandescence, reality screamed in pain as the fabric of existence was torn open. Wounds in the skin of reality wept great tides of the imaterium into the world like puss. For an unready mind to even glance through such a nightmarish portal would send him into a cackling fit of suicidal insanity, if he was lucky. A chorus of screams, human and xenos alike, cried out in fear and anguish. Standing corpses had the souls burnt out of them, howling without ending long after the body was dead, and the lungs were empty. Then, from out of what could never be, came they who were never born. Shifting clouds of consciousness and power coalesced into forms no mortal mind was ever meant to see. Humanoid shapes drenched in the sickly-sweet smell of rotting fruit, powerful and elegant legs ending in nightmarish claws and cloven hooves. Shimmering, hairless skin, moist in sweat and oils. Bodies of twisted, repulsive beauty, designed to tempt man's most hidden and guilty desires. Statuesque faces with alien eyes that drained all light from the world. Flowing, ephemeral hair that moved as if in water. Slender arms, ending in hooked monstrosities from the depths of the ocean, claws that could bring the most torturous pleasure and rapturous agony. Daemonet's of Slaanesh.

With unrestrained ecstasy these creatures set upon the battlefield with a sickening fluidity, devoid of the grace and poise of the eldar these monstrosities moved with a hypnotic aura that would make any sane man vomit. Many of them were drawn to the unguarded bodies of the fallen eldar like flies to a corpse. Rending open spirit stones and drinking the precious souls within with an unparalleled delight, causing their bodies to flicker with a pleasure so intense as to almost drive them from reality once more. Others fell upon those men who still stood without a trace of discrimination, eldar, human, astartes. They were all just food. From his vantage point above it all Arlek let a contemptuous groan escape his helm which could barely conceal his sneer. The Autarch was gone, doubtless dealing with the crisis, even as larger shadows began to coalesce around them.

Reaching out with his mind Arlek found the thoughts of Arelesea, speaking directly into her consciousness.  
"We leave at once. Gather what you have and proceed to the Thunderhawks, burn everything you leave behind." Arelesea may not have been a psyker, but she knew all she had to do was think clearly and her Lord would feel it.  
"Arlek, give me more time… Please, there is so much here, and I have reclaimed so little."  
"You will be dead if you delay. Extract, now!" He could feel the form of a further objection start to form in her mind, but it soon fell away. She knew better than resist him in moments like this. With another subtle thought he instructed brother Orisian to summon further escort ships from the Shu to guide them out. Whilst Arlek brought what remained of the will of every battle brother in his spire, into his own. The Thunderhawks could not risk a low altitude slow flight to reach the second spire in these conditions. So they would have to go to the Thunderhawks. To do that, they would have to cross open ground, fight their way into a spire and climb several stories. A daunting task for some perhaps, for the weak. But he was a warrior of the 15th, a scholar who had mastered things few men could imagine in their wildest dreams, or darkest nightmares. What fear did a stretch of sand have for him?

With a single, long stride, Arlek walked off of the balcony and into the open air, over half a tonne of man and metal suddenly plummeting towards the earth. Behind him fell his escorts whilst from windows and openings across the spire the rest of his empty brothers fell, all hitting the earth with a thunderous boom, divine beings falling to earth. The drop would have killed mere mortals, but Arlek was no mortal, and his brothers had no bodies to die. Without need of command his comrades gathered around him in a mandala formation, a more intricate and arcanely balanced form of the crude kill circles employed by many of his cousins. Arlek was glad to see that all his brothers still stood, but worried by the damage many had sustained. Impaled, cut, burned, not a single one of them had survived unscathed. One that Arlek recognised as the long silent form of brother Carris, had lost his right arm just above the elbow, the armour having magically sealed shut at the wound to keep the soul inside whilst Carris was now valiantly wielding his bolter in his left hand alone. For a fleeting moment Arlek could see them as they once were, in armour of crimson and ivory, fighting in chilling silence but with vibrant souls, a handful of burning brothers against the stars. But the illusion was all too fleeting.

Almost instantly the demons turned upon Arlek and his men, unwilling to tolerate these uninvited intruders into their realm. With cruel smiles and ethereal shrieks of thirsting joy those closest shards of Slaanesh charged the legionaries. They met with only bolter fire, each shot placed with chilling efficiency and precision, dissipating their targets back into the warp as no more than shrieking clouds of tortured thought. Those clawed monstrosities that could reach the outer edge of the Mandala soon found themselves striking only air as the formation shifted with a surprising ease to protect each and every brother, whereupon the confused creature of the warp would soon feel the maddening pain of Arlek's burning blade rending them open, from naval to nose.

But it was not the daemons that worried Arlek, what worried him were the guns of the xenos even now being trained upon him. To survive the twisted creatures of pleasure and pain the legionnaires had to maintain a tight formation, easy pickings in the open for the eldar. As if on que a hail of foul fire struck them, despite his hesitancy to use such overt powers so soon Arlek was forced to erect a kine shield to protect him and his men. But his soul had barely been reassembled, the flow of the warp through him was not as easy as it usualy was. He could feel the power that sustained the barrier stuttering and starting to fail, even without being attacked. But the minds of his men were still open to him, where raw power was failing, subtlety would succeed. Snaking his will into the mind of every mortal soldier who still retained both their sanity and their lives in the tower he had just abandoned, he commanded them all to go to the windows and fire upon the eldar. They were to do this despite any risk to their own lives, it did not matter if they could see a banshee running towards them or feel the claws of a daemon around their throats. There was to be nothing in their minds beyond providing cover for Arlek.

The ensuing barrage was as effective as you might suspect from men who cared nothing for their own safety. The xenos were forced to take cover and shelter themselves from the storm of las fire, but it was only seconds before Arlek could feel the souls of his puppets being snuffed out one by one. This brief window of opportunity would not last, but it didn't have to. Breaking into a run he took the mandala across the blood drenched sands, moving to it's leading edge he dropped the kine shield and focused his mind on cutting a path through any creature that was foolish enough to stand in front of a Lord of Chaos. Working his blade with a deft efficiency blended with an alarmingly inhuman power Arlek half glided, half rammed, his way to safety. He gained entrance through a breach in the base of the spire that was choked with both human and eldar dead, just as he felt the wall of las fire that had saved him collapse into nothingness as the butchery began.

But he paid it no mind, he may have though of his spire guard successors as more than mere cultists. But there were still only mortal, they had served their purpose. Nor did he allow the twisted and broken bodies of those around him to distract him. Even the sculptures of flesh and fear that the laughing children of Slaanesh and wrought of eldar bodies in mere minutes went uncontemplated. Instead Arlek and his marines tore along the blood-soaked corridors, homing in on the psychic echoes of their comrades. Their approach was heralded by the constant echo of bolter fire reverberating down the corridors, a full third of Arlek's team firing behind them as they ran, shells detonating in amongst the swarm of thirsting daemons which poured down the halls after them like a raging current in a sinking ship. No sooner had one monster fallen than another burst through it's still dissipating form, eyes alight with a sadistic imagination and tongue running wet with desire.

Those marines in the centre lay suppressive fire down any corridor they happened to pass whilst Arlek and the astartes in the vanguard struck down whatever tried to stand in front of them. Resistance was disorganised and light at first, the arrival of the daemons had wreaked havoc with the rear of the eldar position and they had not yet been able to restore any kind of cohesion. All they came across in front of them were odd handfuls of confused eldar or distracted daemons, neither of which fared well when suddenly confronted with charging marines.

But, moving at the speed they were, it was not long until they encountered what passed for the frontline in this brawl. The cacophony of half a dozen different kinds of weapon rattling down the halls created a discordant mess of sound, but one that could do little to conceal the pounding thump of thirteen astartes at full sprint. A wraithguard turned sharply, his enlarged body of beautifully sculpted warithbone moved with a force few living eldar could hope to match, his utterly featureless face concealing any hint of surprise. The weapon in the construct's hands told Arlek just how desperate the eldar were, how important this mission must have been. A D-scythe. To the untrained eye it looked like just another eldar cannon, but Arlek knew it's capabilities. It did nothing to flesh or armour, it made no sound or flash of light. It simply removed the soul from the body, cutting the cord that tied mind to flesh, banishing the spirit into the warp to be consumed by jealous gods. Even the eldar hesitated to inflict that fate upon their foes, they considered such a thing to be irreligious, even blasphemous if the xenos had such a concept. So taboo was the weapon many hosts refused to field them at all, and none allowed it to rest in the hands of the living. Only the dead souls of the wraithguard could wield such things. But it did not just serve as a stark sign of just what this battle meant to the eldar, it was also one of the few weapons in their arsenal that could easily kill one of Arlek's rubricae brethren. After all, all that made up such a man was armour, dust and the shadow of a soul to give it life.

The next half second seemed to pass in slow motion as the barrel of the weapon arced around whilst Arlek's blade rose to meet it. A bolter shell deflected off of the warrior's shoulder, the xeno's finger wrapped around the trigger, the tip of his sword arced upwards. Suddenly there was a collapse of energy as Arlek's blade parted the deadly cannon down it's length, the terrible energies which drove it falling in upon themselves before dissipating into the air. Without pausing to slow his charge Arlek drove his blade through the core of the unarmed wraithguard, destroying the elegant circuitry and arcne runes that animated it. But even as the machine began to go limp, Arlek could hear the sound of another body hitting the floor with a sound like a bell falling from its tower. Sirax, one of his ever-present guard, had fallen face first upon the cold floor, armour unbroken, limbs unmoving. To the left another warithguard stood, gun levelled at the point Sirax had been standing.

Revenge was swift and brutal, the silent wraithguard was almost instantly enveloped in a cloud of furious bolter fire. What remained was not a body, but a haze of broken shards and shrapnel. To his horror Arlek spied through the fray the position being held by his brothers, Sirax was not the only legionnaire lying upon the ground. A third wriathguard turned only to find the tip of Arlek's sword ramming its way into where his eyes would have been had the creature still possessed them. A collection of black guardians and aspect warriors turned as well, wishing that the banshees who lay dead upon the floor had not wasted their lives trying to charge the thousand sons up ahead. For whilst the eldar had found cover from the enemy in front of them, the enemy behind them was a whole other matter. Arlek had to give them credit, they didn't run. The collection of regally crested dire avengers and death faced dark reapers barely had time to take aim before Arlek and his men were upon them, eldar grace unable to outdo the thundering inevitability of running astartes. But whilst Arlek and his men may have torn through the eldar formation, they slew surprisingly few of them, instead merely smashing them aside, scattering their fragile forms about like chaff.

If the aliens wondered why the astartes did not pause to kill them they soon had their answer. The daemonic tide was still hot on their heels, the space marines did not have to kill the eldar, they simply had to wait for the daemons to do it instead. In the few precious seconds of time that the screaming eldar bought them Arlek was able to burst through and lead his brothers into the safety of Orisian's hold out position near the thunderhawks. Outside Arlek could hear the guns of the waiting ships firing, doubtless trying to keep the sky clear of some unknown foe, though the echoes of turbulent warp shades arcing though the sky told Arlek enough. But much to his surprise Orisian himself was not here, nor were several battle brothers. As his rubricae turned all their guns on the demon tide just as the last eldar fell silent, Arlek sensed his brother approaching fast with several others in tow including Arelesea.

When the troop arrived Arelesea's servitors were hauling crates upon crates of looted equipment and spiritstones. But one item stood out, eight servitors were carrying a tall section of the computer bank in the basement below.  
"Explain!" He demanded over the hail of fire. Arelesea's response was as blunt as her voice.  
"I will not leave this knowledge behind. There was no time to extract the data. So I have physically removed the entire memory core." The sudden roar of engines signalled their escort thunderhawks streaking by, filling the air superheated promethium and gun smoke. There was no time to argue, they were where they were.  
"Load it and be done!" He commanded, turning his attention towards the abating demonic swarm, driven back at last by the combined weight of the legionnaire's firepower, Orisian and those few who had been escorting Arelesea standing vigil over the corridor they had come down.  
"You two!" Barked Arlek at a pair of idle servitors who had finished their task. "Recover the fallen astartes, load them into a thunderhawk." Without even a sound of recognition to the two near mindless drones set about unceremoniously grabbing each fallen marine in turn, dragging their soulless suits of armour across the floor with the shriek of scraping metal. It pained Arlek to see men who were once compared to gods treated so unceremoniously by wretched puppets of flesh and metal, but this day would not allow them time for reverence.

Already Arlek could sense two great presences preparing to assault his position. One was a monster of appetites and lust, a salivating beast groaning in anticipation, mind gleaming with an animal cunning. The other was a slowly growing shape of crystal and glass, hardening and reforming.  
"We leave now!" Arlek declared, striding towards the waiting ramp of the nearest thunderhawk, his brothers following on behind as the servitors finished loading the final crate and recovering the last brother, the armour of Sirax. As he emerged onto the grand balcony another thunderhawk tore overhead, pursued by a pair of ever changing creatures that would be more at home in the depths of the sea than soaring in the sky. Writhing masses of tentacles and eyes, strangely luminescent bodies that crackled with an impossible energy as if lightning itself was somehow stored within them.

Meanwhile, lesser creatures fluttered above like birds, twisted beauties who were as repulsive as they were alluring, sung like sirens as they circled above Arlek and his men, flying on wings of gossamer thin flesh. Only for their song to turn into shrieks of bitterness and range as the guns of the stationary thunderhawks turned upon them, twin linked heavy bolters belching out spent casings like hail upon the floor.

As soon as his last brother's boots had touched the ramp Arlek gave the order to take off, not even waiting for the ramp to close. No one even mentioned the mortal soldiers who might still be fighting on in the towers, or who worse still had been taken alive by the monsters below. They were mortal, it was what they were for. They had Arelesea, they had the artefacts, they had the astartes, they had what mattered. But that was not why he was so ceased by haste, it was what was coming around the corner. As engines roared and the vast bulk of the thunderhawk lifted from the ground four shapes rounded the corner. Three warlocks stood, blades at the ready, cloaks blowing in the afterburner's backdraft. Whilst at their head stood the farseer, hand outstretched trying to summon the power to strike the mon-keigh craft from the sky, but no blast came. Instead she seemed to stagger forward, as if exhausted or wounded. For a brief moment eldar grace became all too human. A bold warlock stood forward to finish the farseer's work, but a burst of fire from the thunderhawk's turret forced him to erect a protective ward instead.

As the gunship drew away and the ramp sealed shut at last, Arlek took his seat near the cockpit, almost subconsciously reaching into the pilot's perceptions to subtly guide him along the safest course through the increasingly crowded skies, prodding him to jerk the craft towards safety mere moments before some blast of energy or thirsting tendril snatch them out of the sky. But one thought, one emotion, seemed to drift across the battle field and drive its way into his mind for the briefest of moments. It was shaped in a language that defied human expression, and which Arlek had only learned after centuries of effort and draining the knowledge from the minds of it's native speakers. He recognised the shape of its owner, the farseer. It was anger, and it was grief, of shades finer than mere mortals could understand. But there was something else under it, something surprising. Regret. Not for those who had fallen, but for someone who was yet to fall. That thought sat and festered in Arlek's mind, long after they had escaped the atmosphere and the safe haven of the Shu had come into view. Someone yet to fall.


	5. Chapter 5

Arlek never could quite adjust to the muted tinge the world seemed to take on whenever he was severed from the warp. Even material things seemed somehow dull, whilst his flesh felt heavy and wet. He could almost feel it's organic processes churning, it was unsettling, and distasteful. But such discomforts were occasionally necessary inconveniences. He sat in the miniaturised pyramid of crystal, opaque to all outside viewers, that adjoined his personal quarters. It was a recreation of the one so often used by his father, the Crimson King, aboard the Photep. Even the swirling counter spirals of black and white marble that made up its floor were here, though they were nothing more than a pointless recollection of a time that could never come again. In those hessian days Arlek had seldom stepped inside the pyramid, even when he helped to build its mobile counterpart. But those few visits within had left a strong impression in his mind. Something in the universe felt right, ordered, balanced and perfect upon that floor. The regal countenance of his father, standing tall in his wisdom, patience and power. The heads of the cults and other chosen men standing about him, not in a circle, but in a carefully orchestrated series of positions along each spiral. Their positions were not regular, that would have been too mundane, too simple. Instead they stood at key intersections and sliding points along each arm, positioned based upon their cults power in the warp, and the brother's favour in the eye of Magnus.

At first Arlek had thought perhaps he could stand at the centre, but every time he set his feet there something felt wrong, an echo of his father still stood in that spot, even if that was only true in Arlek's mind. In time the traditions of the floor ceased to be observed, the collapse of the cults, the collapse of the legion, rendered it pointless. Another subtle treasure of the 15th, gone. Now Arlek and his own chosen advisors sat in a circle upon simple yet elegant chairs of alien wood and supple upholstery from a long extinct species. Every one of them had removed their battle plate, sitting instead in robes of their choosing. Arlek for his part wore simple red silk, cut like the garb of a monk and edged in ivory. It was so finely stitched as to make it's seems invisible to even a trained eye. Simplicity and elegance, skill and restraint. To Arlek's satisfaction his brothers wore similar robes, the cuts, colours and even modest embellishments may all have been different from one another. But all shared this theme of quality, paired with understatement. These men had no need of gross or ostentatious displays, and they knew the danger that lay within them.

Each man here had resisted the corrupting allure of power as best they could, and if anything, they had only gathered more power to them over the millennia for their fortitude and caution. Power meant nothing if it came at the price of your freedom, or your soul. They were not all, entirely, pure. Ten thousand years could test even the most resolute of men, Primarchs had fallen to a lot less. But compared to those brothers of theirs who sat unquestioningly at the feet of their father, this company was as pure as the driven snow. They had remembered the lessons from before the fall, lessons even Magnus had seemed to cast aside. To have seen his father become what he was today pained Arlek. He still loved that man, his hearts beat with a fondness only family could evoke. But he despaired for him as well, as a parent might when seeing their child fall into crime or addiction.

But they were not here to bemoan the sins of the past or denounce the folly of the present. The battle upon the crone world troubled Arlek, and he desired the council of a select few from his brothers who still retained their minds. He was only saddened that Ahriman was not here. Some might have thought it curious that Arelesea, or other senior crew were noticeably absent, but this was a legion affair, and one mired in the warp. Only the voice of a brother counted for anything.

"This was no coincidence. Of that we can be sure." The speaker was brother Rhydel, a stalwart man, dependable and thorough. In the days of legionnaire exchanges he had spent his time with Perturabo's 4th Legion, the Iron Warriors. And whilst there was no doubt that Rhydel was a son of Magnus, something of that most grounded of legions had clearly stuck with him. He even looked like he might have had a touch of their geneseed to him, broader than most, with a firm jaw and a firm brow, weathered head shaved bald and a nose that had never quite set properly after being broken so many times.

This was in sharp contrast to the man across from him, who seemed to have taken a lesson or two from the Phoenician, before things had gotten out of hand. The way he carried himself, his build and frame, were undoubtedly masculine. But he had an almost incongruously feminine face, fine featured and elegant, made all the more peculiar for its air of firm confidence. His steel hair was swept back, almost reaching his shoulder whilst his eyes carried the flash of brilliance in them.  
"But to what end brother?" Pressed brother Sylvian, more as a slightly smug reminder to Rhydel that the hardy battle brother was not the possessor of all wisdom, than a genuine inquiry.

As Arlek looked upon Sylvian he silently contemplated how this man, dressed in robes of snow white with subtle golden trim, was in some ways the brightest star amongst Arlek's followers. And in some ways the most concerning. Of all those here, Sylvian flew the closest to the perils of the warp, but his bouts of wild genius and strange power had allowed him to prevail where no one else under Arlek could. Where Rhydel was consistent quality, Sylvian was sporadic brilliance.

"Something or someone in that place was of great importance to the Aeldari. More so than mere baubles and empty spirt stones." Added Arlek slowly, his shifting eyes now a deep blue that ran almost black as his mind churned methodically through all the potential significances of what had happened on the surface.  
"More Important than the stones?" Asked Orisian, in tones that bordered on the surprised. His features were a little more youthful than the others, despite his own prodigious age. His skin was that little more colourful, his cheeks just a little more full. "They are the future of their race, what could be more important?"

"Because there are more sites on more worlds Orisian." Stated Sylvian sharply. "Brother Erelash has already determined these stones are in some way the remains of the dead xenos. The crone worlds will be thick with them. It does not take seer sight to know there is more at play here." Arlek slowly raised a hand to silence Sylvian, the man was right, but there was no need to undermine Orisian further.  
"I believe it was most likely the alien cogitator. It was remarkably intact and may contain invaluable information." Speculated Rhydel. "We shall know more once Arelesea has completed he work on the device." Arlek was not entirely convinced Rhydel's explanation was true, or at least not the whole truth. He slowly let out a sceptical hum of thought.  
"Perhaps, but there are so many things whose true value may still remain hidden. Many of their kin dance to the tune of their gods, though only the clown and their doom seem to be talking much. Moreover it would be beyond arrogant of us to pretend that the architect of fate himself would be unable to nudge our hand. It may have been the alien device, or perhaps someone important to a future that is yet unknown to us was supposed to be killed, perhaps they were."

Arlek sounded calm as he talked, as if the whole thing were just academic, but both Sylvian and Orsian looked at one another in a moment of uneasy doubt. Neither of them was comfortable with Arlek's odd lack of insight into where these paths may take them. Partly because they had no wish to wander into what was rapidly looking like a serious and complex scenario without that tool. But mainly because it was so rare for Arlek's sight to waiver. If Rhydel was sharing the same thoughts, his face did not show it, his expression was one of stone. But in truth, Arlek was as disquieted as any of them. The only other seer aboard was Sylvian, and though the man's powers may have been less disciplined and less reliable than those of Arlek, and in better times less potent as well, Arlek was forced to make an unusual request.  
"Brother Sylvian. I want you to turn your mind to the future, to unravelling what may lay ahead of us." Arlek gave no further explanation, he may have been their brother, but he was also their Lord. But there was a strange moment of silence before Sylvian gave a small bow of his beautifully coiffured head.  
"Of course brother." No one daring to say out loud the weakness Arlek had just been forced to reveal.

Eager not to dwell on this point Arlek moved to the next subject, one that he hoped would put his men in more optimistic spirits.  
"We have recovered a large number of vacant soul stones from the crone world. It is my belief that we can use these to augment our resurrection process. Though it may not have been what it once was, if the eldar can restore personality to a body of wraithbone we can do so to our rubricae brothers." There was an audible muttering amongst the small gathering, as if hearing of some great scandal. Even Rhydel stirred in surprise at these words, his eyes going wide in mild disbelief.  
"My Lord. I fear you may be being optimistic. From materials, to the technology, to the nature of the soul itself there are myriad difficulties that may stand in our way. To make the situation more difficult still the xenos aeldari souls are caught whole, at the point of death. We are already dealing with people who are shadows of their former selves, some of whom have died, been resurrected and died again repeatedly." For once even Sylvian was nodding along with Rhydel's words, it was a rare day when those two agreed.

Arlek would have been lying if he said he did not have his doubts, but the strands of fate that had led him first to the spiritseer and then to the stones. This was the best lead they had. He would not give up so easily.  
"I agree, this will not be simple. But it will not be impossible. Until recently I had shared your concern that the issue of an incomplete soul may be insurmountable. But, thanks to Yvraine we know this is not the case. Though she may have cruelly used our love for our brothers against us, she was able to restore our brothers to total life. Flesh, soul and all. That alone proves the soul is recoverable in its entirety." Silence followed his statement, his reasoning was sound but the sheer scale of what lay before them was still intimidating. Not only that, but these men had been disappointed far too many times before. They would not allow themselves to raise their hopes again on such a slim chance. But Arlek would not permit them to linger in such a mood. "All of you shall labour on this task when not occupied by your other duties or vital work."

With barely even a pause brother Rhydel spoke, staring out into the middle of the floor, almost as if he was gazing through the hull and into space.  
"We are going to need wraithbone, someone who can craft it and someone who knows how to construct a wraithguard, or at the very least an intact model. We have learned all we can from the broken ones." Arlek nodded slowly, silently reflecting on how Rhydel always seemed to be the first to consider mundane, practical concerns like the mechanics and circuity of the problem, before permitting himself to consider the esoteric.

"I agree." Concurred Arlek after a moment's consideration. "I shall consult the paths of what may be whilst we are en route. But for now, we shall lay in a course for Talithia"  
"Why there?" Asked Sylvian, perking a perfectly sculpted brow.  
"It is a maiden world, one reclaimed by craftworld Iyanden shortly before their craftworld itself was gutted. The eldar have always been loath to surrender a maiden world, but Iyanden's forces are likely stretched too thin to properly safeguard it. If they have vulnerable bone singers, they will be there, amidst the reconstruction."  
"They will not cooperate." Observed Orisian, a note of caution in his voice.  
"I will not give them a choice." Stated Arlek, coldly. "We will take as many as we can. I shall rip the secrets from the minds of some. Keep others alive to practice their craft under observation. They will comply, freely or under duress, they will comply." His words had a finality to them, as if there was no room for doubt that these xenos would eventually bend to his will.

Rising slowly from his chair Arlek caused all of the others to hastily stand up after him, when a Lord of Chaos stood, nobody sat.  
"You will speak of your findings and work regarding this new project only within the confines of this chamber. Many warp born eyes would gladly undo our labours. Even our father may be amongst them. This is the one place we can be sure is beyond their sight." Every man nodded their understanding, falling in behind Arlek as he left this sanctum of crystal. Outside, several dead eyed servitors stood ready by four suits of armour, each polished, oiled and tended to whilst the magisters deliberated in the arcane sanctum. Without so much as a word each post human warrior removed his robes, handing them to the twisted constructs of flesh and machine that had all become decidedly subhuman.

But in that brief moment, between being wrapped in fine silks and encased in their second skins of ceramite and fibre bundles, the astartes looked a little less divine than most common men thought of them. Their large, over muscled, forms bordered on the distasteful. Each of them bore the scars of their elevation, great marks more often found on a corpse after it had undergone an autopsy littered their bodies. Everyone a painful reminder of the nightmarish surgeries each of them had endured for years upon end, starting as mere boys of 10. That their flesh had healed this well was a testament to their post human recovery and their surgeons. Few men would even be recognisable after having every parcel of skin cut away from their still conscious bodies, before being refitted like a macabre glove after the work was done. Even without the occasional scar the ports of bare metal scattered about their bodies were yet further reminders of how much they had changed. Crude but effective means of interfacing with their armour, allowing for the flow of vital nutrients, or ready access for future medical procedures, the ports had not been designed with either comfort or elegance in mind. Only hard, brutal function. Stripped as they were these mighty warriors, thought of as demi gods by more primitive humans, suddenly seemed a little more tragic, even pitiable, and a lot less perfect.

But this glimpse at what lay beneath did not last long, stepping into their awaiting suits of armour the servitors rapidly set about sealing each walking war machine into his second skin. Plate after plate, rivet after rivet, for a space marine donning his armour was less like dressing in a fresh set of clothes, and more akin to having a vehicle constructed around it's driver. At first the armour felt cold and heavy, as restraining as it was empowering. Then, without warning, a lancing pain hit Arlek like shards of ice skewering through his body. It was the sensation that came with the auto screws on the myriad pipes and cables, that connected the armour he wore with black carapace beneath his skin, boring down into their ports across his body. He could feel his organs being punctured, muscle dug into. For an astartes, this was not a great pain. But it was pain none the less. It was a misconception often held by mortals to believe the space marines felt no agony. They did, they could just deal with more of it.

But after Arlek had endured in silence this brief moment of torture, everything changed. The pain vanished as the drills found their homes, flesh settling back into place around them as if this was how it was always meant to be. But even that meant nothing compared to the sensation of the black carapace making its final connection with the armour above. Suddenly Arlek was not encased in cumbersome composites, but had instead grown a second skin. Every movement felt as free, easy and natural as they did when he wore nothing more than silk. The armour felt weightless, yet powerful, a force without encumbrance. It almost felt more comfortable, more natural, then being without this casing. Often times he missed it when it was gone.

Looking at his comrades he saw Rhydel's tactical dreadnaught armour hum into life. Somehow anything less than terminator armour seemed like an insult to this man's forbearance. To the initiated the mere fact he strode into battle in this most venerated of armour marked him out as a member of the scarab occult, or what was left of it. Every man amongst them an accomplished scholar, arcanist and warrior. His hulking suit of ceramite bore all the elaborate embellishments of artistry that other terminators of the Thousand Sons did. The elegant yet restrained trim of burnished gold was supplemented by glistening emeralds in polished settings made to look like eyes at his waist, shins and elbows. Vibrant stripes of yellow adorned his shoulders and surprisingly restrained head dress. Whilst a simple cloak and stole of deep crimson, the true colour of the legion, marked his rank. He looked no more grand than anyone else who held his station. His armour was a firm declaration of who he was, but without a shred of boastfulness or self-aggrandisement. But there was one small hint of sentimentality to the fortress of iron that was his second skin. Hanging from his shoulders were worn and faded strips of leather, once a brilliant white but now sadly grey. They served no practical purpose, but were instead a connection to the past, a time when all Sekhmet had worn such things.

Rhydel's restraint and hard functionality were in sharp juxtaposition to vibrant display that was Sylvian. He was fantastic in the flesh, but that paled into insignificance when set against his battle plate. His power armour was lavishly adorned with swirling designs of gold and silver, arcane runes were etched in patterns calculated by inhuman mathematics. They were dull now, but as the power of the warp coursed through Sylvian those ancient symbols would glow with the intangible force of the great ocean. His corvus pattern helm was mildly elongated and erupting from its back was a radiant tail of thick red hair, which pulsed and hummed with an impossible glow, moving gently in an unreal wind. The lining of his deep red cloak seemed to shift and swirl like the depths of an unknowable ocean, and was crowned about his shoulders with feathers plucked from warp born horrors. Each feather shifted in colour, from purple, to red, to orange, glowing with an inborn luminescence long after having been picked from their host.

But not everything was sheer display. Arlek had seen the haunting efficacy of the gossamer thin blades concealed in Sylvian's forearms, lethal cutting tools that ran along the length of his bracers and could deploy at will to stand two inches proud of his arm. They were so thin that light could pass through them with only the slightest distortion, yet so sharp they could almost cut light itself. He had long ago tinkered with recovered eldar technology to install a pair of concealed monofiliament launchers in his armour's wrists. But these lethal devices did not just fire bursts of the lethal strands. They could cause imperceptibly thin blades to stand proud from them like swords, or crack them like whips. Even when he did not walk into battle with sword or bolter, Sylvian was lethally armed.

In comparison Orisian was unremarkable, his simple armour and modest robes made him seem almost mundane. Particularly in any room Sylvian happened to be occupying. Yet there he so often was, three steps behind Arlek. There were more lesser sorcerers Arlek could have kept close, but Orisian piqued his curiosity if only because somehow, despite the odds, he always managed to be there.

As the sensation of being reconnected with his armour faded, other feelings became more prominent. Foremost among them was his reconnection to the warp outside of his inscrutable sanctum. He could feel it's currents washing strongly all about them, an invisible sea battering against the hull of the ship. Even now, during a brief period in real space to confirm their bearings and adjust course, the currents of the immaterium seemed to break against them like a wild and wasteful ocean against the cliffs. Perhaps now was not the most opportune moment to renter the warp, even if it's rougher seas bore less terror to a heretical ship. But these currents were not without their advantages.  
"Prepare the Revivification Chamber." Ordered Arlek. "The warp waxes thick, take one of our fallen brothers and ready him for restoration. I will join you shortly." His company left without another word, only brief bows of respect and the thud of power armoured boots marching away.

He meanwhile, made for another section of the ship. Deep in the Shu's bowels lay a chamber, sitting at the centre of a web of cables, pipes, maintenance tunnels and great corridors. Here, several of the ships cogitators were stored, though the designers had not been so foolish as to centralise the whole of the craft's processing power. But now some of these ancient machines had been lent a touch of the arcane. Their machine spirits supplemented or replaced by the spirits of enslaved daemons, shackled and bound to cold circuitry and kept under the careful eye of not only the Thousand Sons, but also the dark mechanicum and Arelesea. For a woman who held no psychic ability worth mentioning, she understood the temperaments and behaviours of her ensnared infernal servants far better than any mundane woman ever should. Then again, few would describe her as mundane.

But the cogitators were not why Arlek was here, he was here for their mistress. At the centre of it all sat a large vat, filled with a thick, viscous liquid that barely allowed any light through it. An array of pipes and cables fed into container, and something about it felt vaguely unsettling. Like looking through human skin and organs to see all the crude, inelegant liquids sloshing about inside. Suspended in the centre of the vat was a dark, unclear shape, little more than a shadow. With the eye of faith something about it seemed vaguely human, but eerily wrong all at once. In the poor light it was unclear if the frame that hung there was delicate, and fragile, or wasted and desiccated. Odd, incongruous shapes hinted at the mechanical augments that had been worked into it, whilst mechadendrites flowed gently beneath the creature like the tendrils of a jelly fish.

"It is traditional to knock, is it not?" Blasted Arelesea's voice from speakers mounted about the room. It was a little jarring to hear her already harsh voice coming from every direction other than her body.  
"Need I remind you, this is my ship." Retorted Arlek, with a slightly light tone, the mild smirk on his face hidden by the grim, unmoving jackal helm.  
"Your ship?" Countered Arelesea, with a humorous twinge only a psyker could detect, emphasising her words as the main door slammed shut behind Arlek, followed by the thud of dead bolts ramming home.  
"Yes mine." He simply said flatly, punctuating the point by bending his mental powers to slide the bolts back, psychic might trumping her neural interface.

But despite this levity, he was not here to exchange pleasantries.  
"The memory core. How go your efforts to unlock its secrets?"  
"They progress slowly Arlek. These xenos minds are inefficient." He could feel her disappointment and disregard, but he was amused by her sentiment. He wondered how those arrogant aeldari would react to a base mon-keigh criticising their craft and technology. Doubtless they would only see it as further confirmation of just how irredeemably unintelligent the lesser races were, too dull minded to appreciate what was before them. For every trait he admired in that proud race, there was another that vexed and disappointed him. This unbelievable intellectual arrogance was one of the foremost amongst them. For any other creature to criticise them was further evidence of how unenlightened they were, whilst to praise any part of that race was viewed as a rightful recognition of manifest eldar superiority. He was aware that the sons of Tizca were often accused of their own brand of intellectual arrogance, that they believed they alone of all the legions understood the warp and the very nature of the universe more deeply than any other astartes ever could. But none would even pretend that the 15th legion's hubristic arrogance ever approached that of the aeldari.

He almost wished Slaanesh would bring out the soul of which ever nameless engineer built the machine, to force them to listen to a twisted amalgam of machine and flesh floating in a tank, criticise their work.  
"The architect has sacrificed function for form. And in so doing, has lost both. Nothing is as inelegant in the machine as inefficiency." Arlek did not even try to supress the grin beneath his helm as he continued to listen to Arelesea. "Constructing a transformer to allow the machine to utilise our power was challenging enough. Their non-binary alternation, whilst curious, is pointlessly complex for barely any improvement in yield. Even compared to their more modern tools we have recovered, this is absurd."  
"But you have restored power." Arlek replied. "So why the continuing delay? Is their security keeping you at bay?" He felt Arelesea's scoff before he heard it.  
"Pah" she replied, in a noise like a malfunctioning speaker. "Their security from this time was not designed with the mechanicum in mind. Though in truth, I do not know if I have truly encountered the device's security yet."  
"Clarify" Pressed Arlek as he walked around Arelesea's vat with a slow, pondering pace, her mysterious form made no clearer for his closeness.  
"These xenos minds have created a most disorganised machine. The manner in which its various files and programs have been constructed is chaotic. I am attempting to map them, but the cogitators are hard pressed to do so."

Again, Arlek was forced to hold back a chuckle.  
"You're thinking in straight lines Arelesea." He knew that was a crude over simplification, but the point he was making was that these most artisanal of xenos though in a manner very alien to humanity, and that their computer architecture would likely follow suit. But Arelesea seemed unimpressed.  
"Do you think I do not realise this?" she replied, and Arlek got the feeling she was rolling her one good eye somewhere in that murky cloud of amniotic fluid. "You are not alone in possessing a functional mind aboard this ship Arlek. And I have dealt with the eldar's infernal crafts before. But this construction is needlessly labyrinthine even by their standards. It does not resemble any of the basic architectures they now employ." Now that was interesting, even concerning. Admit it or not the aeldari had stumbled into a technological stagnation, though not regression, to rival the Imperium. Though in their case it was not due to dogmatic narrowmindedness and religious fear. But rather, an inevitable result of their severely reduced size. They simply could not produce the same number of scientists and engineers, and those they did create were forced to dedicate inordinate amounts of time to maintenance. Even worse, rare new designs could not be produced in meaningful numbers due to their near total absence of an industrial machine.

So, for an ancient aeldari machine to be so markedly different from its modern cousins signalled that something was amiss, but what, and why? These questions had no ready answers, and he was not so impatient as to demand them now. He had lived for over ten thousand years, he could wait. He considered offering Arelesea access to his studies on ancient aeldari to aid her in her efforts. But she already had access to all his works regarding their technical craft and science, more arcane texts would not help her, nor would he wish to share them.  
"Very well, keep me apprised of your progress Arelesea. If that machine is as important as you believe, better we understand it soon. But do not risk it, or yourself, with reckless haste." He was already moving towards the door when Arelesea interrupted him.  
"This would go a lot faster if you allowed me to interface directly with…"  
"No." Cut across Arlek, in a voice heavy with finality.  
"But what reason is there for…"  
"The reasons I have explained to you countless times before!" There was frustration in his voice, always a dangerous thing from a man in his position. But it was tinged with an underlying tone of sad disappointment. "Arelesea, I know that if I allow you to extend your mind across every inch of circuitry in the Shu, to see through her augurs and gun feeds, to feel through her iron hull and void shields, to turn her and burn her engines with a thought, you will not come back. You will become the Shu, I have seen such things before, and your mind will be changed." At times he felt like he was pleading with her when they had this conversation, it was one they had so many times before. He wished he could say that he did not understand her desire, but he did. To become something like the Shu, to have such perfect union with a grand and ancient machine, was heaven to many members of the mechanicum. But more than that, he understood the lure of the power that came with it, the ascension to a higher state of being, beyond the concerns of flesh and mortality.

Such thoughts had crossed his own mind before now, whilst choirs of unknowable voices stood ready to whisper such sweet temptations into his mind whenever he lowered his guard. For him, it was the allure of daemonhood, for her it was becoming a mighty vessel that could end worlds if it bent to it. But Arlek well knew such things would come at a grand cost for them both. They would both loose who and what they were in the process, even if they did not realise it. All such ascensions required sacrifice. It was a price he refused to pay, it was a price he scorned his father for offering up. For those noblest parts of his father, that which made him both magnificent and beneficent, were gone. He admired those who refused to part with that most precious of things, their soul. Ahriman and Abaddon had both earned at least a portion of his respect for them through that trait in them alone.

But Arelesea did not share his determination in that regard. Perhaps that was because deamons were not thirsting after her, though the effect would be much the same. But if she would not stand firm in the face of such temptation, he would stand for her.  
"If my thoughts could reach into every cogitator, not just this handful, the efficiency of this task would be greatly increased." She pressed. It was just another version of a plea Arlek had heard a hundred times before.  
"It is an inefficiency I am willing to bear." He countered. "If you merge with the machine, you will become the machine spirit. You know this. You think you will still be able to have the same kind of flare for innovation, but you will not and you know this in your soul. I can feel the knowledge in you." He tried to become softer in his tone, beseeching rather than berating. But the grim impersonality of his helm made this difficult. "Arelesea, I need you as you are. Able to leave this ship freely. To think and act as you. No one else would have recovered the core, or taken any of the other myriad steps you have. And if this ship fails, I need you to still be free and active to repair it."  
"There are others who…"  
"None who I judge sufficient!" Arlek barked, his patience frayed. He rose gently into the first enumeration to regain his calm and control, a rare step outside of sorcery or battle. Anger was second nature to him now, it burned beneath his skin, deep down beneath his calm and apparent good nature. It was not the frothing madness of the world eaters, or even the cold iron fury of Abaddon. It was far subtler, rumbling at the core of him, blending with sadness, regret, guilt, curiosity and just a little hope, to drive him onwards. It was a vital, but easily overlooked, element of the fuel that drove him. But he did not enjoy this brand of anger, not when directed at her.

Slowly, with a hesitancy few would guess he was capable of, he moved a step closer to the glass of her tank.  
"You cannot be so easily replaced." His words were quiet. He stood there, waiting, for something, anything. Until eventually he was forced to withdraw from the glass.  
"I will update you as to my progress Lord Erelash." Was all he got. He didn't need to feel her mind to know her thoughts. Instead he turned and walked away without another word, his pace a little slower than usual, a little less strident. After the door had closed behind him he could not see her mechadendrites fall limp and heavy, or hear the crackling sound of static through the hanging speakers, their best effort at interpreting her sigh.

His mood remained low as he approached the revivification chamber. But by the time he had reached the heavy, ornate doors that marked the way into that grand room, his melancholy had been replaced with poorly aimed frustration. Unlike the tight, cluttered, metallic confines of Arelesea's sanctum, this room was a return to the architectural style that marked most of the rest of the ship. Walls and floors of polished white marble were embellished with simple, restrained and elegant patterns of gold trim. Large sheets of liquid glass were imbedded into the walls, imperceptibly twisting and swirling, creating an unnatural rainbow sheen like oil. Simple, minimalist buttressing in ivory white led up to a vaulted ceiling that resembled the ribcage of an ancient whale. The kind that swam in old earth's oceans, when Terra still had oceans. Between the beams sat backlit works of painfully beautiful stained glass. To the layman's eye their designs may have seemed meaningless. But to a man drenched in arcane knowledge and Prospereen culture, these marks took on a greater significance. Their designs were call backs to the patterns in the shattered rock that had lead Magnus to create the cults, one for each discipline.

But all of this was window dressing. What mattered were the etheric runes etched into the floor, sorcerers standing amongst them at strategic nexuses of power. All his inner circle were here, and a few more picked men besides. The air was thick with the smell of incense whilst blasphemously blessed candles littered the room. At the centre of it all was an altar, carved from stone the colour of bone. Laying upon it, was the armour of a rubricae, helmetless, and occupied by an unmoving mortal form. The human who lay within was almost comically under proportioned, but it was not his size that mattered. The man rippled in the warp, a faint candle compared to a sorcerer of the Thousand Sons, but enough for these purposes.

"You may begin." He said curtly to the room, taking up his own position near the centre of this carefully arrayed ritual. He did not have to wait long before the chamber was filled with chanting voices, intoning incantations in languages long forgotten to all but the Thousand Sons. Words unearthed not only from the ancient languages of terra but a hundred forgotten bastard off shoots which grew in the isolation from the age of strife. Even twisted xenos words, whose owners were nothing but dust and rumour when the legion arrived on their dead worlds, made their way into this sorcerous cant. Every arcane mind here rose gently through the enumerations, reaching higher and higher. Those closest to the altar possessed the most disciplined and powerful minds, able to bend vast tides of etheric energy with the precision of a scalpel.

Arlek felt the great, swirling tides of the warp spiralling down upon the alter in front of him. Even the eyes of warp blind mortals would detect the maelstrom as a strange heat haze above the armour. But to him it was a swirling inferno of impossible colours and spiralling possibility. Every facet of it excited a sense it should not, he could hear vibrant oranges scream at him. Taste the bitter sting of discordant screeching. The ensemble would have driven most men mad, even minds that laughably called themselves prepared. It was only the rigorous discipline of the enumerations which protected him. Peeling away pointless distractions and the myriad buzzing of an unquiet mind, it allowed him to be aware of everything in the minutest detail, yet be protected from it with mental walls of iron and a semi instinctive ability to do away with all that pointless chaff. What was left, was power, raw and primal, a force that rent reality and physics asunder in the face of will and skill. He had seen it tear fleets from the sky, rip the hearts from titans, bend the wills of the mighty. But amateurs valued power over precision, force over artistry. Arlek's work today would require both.

In this moment, at last, the small and fragile human who lay within the vast astartes armour, moved. It was only his eyes which shifted, the psyker looked at Arlek with utter fear and pleading desperation. The man was bending with every effort against the paralytic drugs which had immobilised him. Nostrils flaring he tried to speak, to scream, but his lips would not move. He was possessed with the wild panic of a frightened animal, he knew his fate, he knew he could not escape the doom that ran at his heels. But still he tried, desperately, vainly, his terror twisting the colour of the warp around him. But Arlek felt nothing for the man as he lowered the rubricae helmet into place, chanting words both ancient and invented.

As the helmet slowly slid in to its moorings the warp roared with power, physically coalescing and flooding the chamber in tempestuous clouds of impossible colour. Lightning danced across the room, striking walls with such force as could shatter a tank where it stood, but which did not leave so much as a scorch mark here. The wind whipped about them like a gale, screaming in fear. Bizarre, nebulous forms took shape in the clouds, all dashing towards the walls, hammering upon them with flailing desperation. They had to get out, get away, get anywhere! Anywhere, other than here. But still the storm raged. It was as nothing, compared to the first time Arlek had seen this. When he had stood upon the planet of the sorcerers with Ahriman, Amon, Tolbek and so many others to cast the rubric and save their legion. But even though this paled in comparison, it was still a sight that drove terror even into demons. A fact which served only to demonstrate how mighty that first time had been.

But the words were different, the currents of the great ocean shifted in subtly altered ways. This was not a recasting of the rubric, but a joining to it, a reaffirmation of that infernal spell. For all Arlek wished that nightmarish work had performed as they had intended, it was still the best solution they had. For the flesh change would have destroyed all of them, this at least saved some of them. And perhaps, just perhaps, one day, they could bring the rest back as well.

Suddenly the vast torrents of power that were spiralling about the room began to surge into the power armour, the warp itself seemed to be dragged towards it and with it came a thousand shades of a million souls. But Arlek was looking for one, one fish in a vast ocean. What would have been an impossible task in almost any other circumstance was dragged into the realms of reality by the rubric itself. It bound all souls of the legion together, both flesh and dust. A common, distinct thread ran through them all, and to those who knew what to look for, it marked a spirit out in the chaos of the warp. Most human, or post human, souls were lucky enough to dissolve swiftly in the vast sea and be spared it's horrors. Not so for the Thousand Sons and particularly not for their dust bound brothers whose rent essence would persist in torturous demi sentience. But in this moment, that maddened soul which had once been bound in this armour was drawn to it again. Hanging close, burning with the rubric's ephemeral trace Arlek was able to reach out and pluck out the half-formed mind of the rubricae like a bear with a fish. The spirt struggled madly as Arlek dragged it down towards the armour that spirit had once inhabited. But as the chanting grew to a trance like flurry Arlek was able to tear one tendril of that mind down to the armour, and then, it could no longer fight.

In an instant the soul was drawn within, pouring into the body of the psyker, binding to his psychic essence like a parasite. The chamber was flooded with the sound of screaming, the vast, indescribable pain of having you soul torn asunder overpowered the man's chemical restraint. Suddenly, he was a flailing, twisting, writhing candle of psychic flame. His burning form unable to move the vast bulk of the armour that housed him, but which was still chained to the altar. Arlek did not have to look within to know that his flesh was being boiled away from his bones, that it was no longer his ashen lungs or molten throat the screamed but his soul itself. A mad wreck of feverish nightmares that howled in pain long after it was dead. The psyker's very essence was consumed by the soul of the rubricae, the body turned to dust, the mind replaced with that of the ten millennia old warrior.

Now the armour moved, it kicked and struggled with the same ferocity of the destroyed psyker, straining at the chains which bound it with an intensity and furious strength that almost ripped the bonds from their mooring in the stone. Arlek could feel hatred, burning hot and bright within the armour. Anger and pain, the desire to scream if it had a throat to speak, to gouge out its eyes if it had any to see. It was confused, insane, tormented by clouded memories of its own past but which this soul viewed through the eyes of a stranger. Driven mad by the inability to know anything of himself…. a name… a name. Arlek could see his brother's mind grasp desperately for a name it could not know.  
"Talas." Spoke Arlek's into his brother's mind. "Talas. Your name is Talas. Talas!" He tried this every time, it had never worked. But across all of these thousands of years he had never stopped trying. Arlek could feel Talas' mind try to seize the words, comprehend them. But soon, all thoughts were lost amidst the howling of wolves which echoed in his mind. Now the creature was lashing out with murderous intent, trying to kill, to burn, to make something understand the pain! Arlek felt this rage turn upon him, but Arlek dismissed it as the aimless fury of a distraught soul striking at whatever was closest. In time it would pass, it always passed.

It was with an almost defeated air that the armour eventually fell motionless on the slab. The world in the revivification chamber returned slowly to normal. And Arlek was forced to hear those three words he hated most.  
"All is dust." They did not come from lips, but were an echo of a half-remembered voice, drifting from a voice relay like a ghost. All is dust. Sometimes, Arlek very nearly believed those words. Slowly he began sliding down the enumerations again, gently easing his mind back towards the mundane world. He was about halfway through the sequence when he noticed something was wrong. The rubricae's psychic essence was destabilising rapidly. All at once the ashen soldier began to spasm once more, but not in rage or pain. Rather, the aimless, involuntary quaking of a man in the grip of a seizure. Soaring back up through the mental disciplines of the Thousand Sons with a speed that pressed upon his mind like a vice Arlek tried to re-stabilise the collapsing soul within, only to find it was not collapsing at all. It was something far worse.

This process had never had a 100% success rate, fortunately it rarely destroyed the soul of the rubricae even when it went wrong, so long as you were skilful. Further attempts were usually possible. But every time it had failed before now it was due to a fault in the process. The armour did not seal, the sacrifice was inadequate, the warp whisked away, a momentary lapse in mental discipline, an imprecise thought from anyone of the sorcerers involved in tearing these souls back from the warp. But there had been no error. This was the work of another. For every needle like application of force and control Arlek applied, a hammer answered him in return. Every stitch he wove into the bindings of the soul was torn open again by a wild and reckless claw. Something even more powerful than him was trying to tear this soul away. Powerful, and devoid of precision, or at least having no need of it. Later Arlek would have time to consider the clues this methodology presented, but for now the whole of his attention was occupied by desperately trying to cling on to this soul. It was as if he were tying to patch a crumbling dam. No sooner had he plugged one fissure than two more opened up, with the grim flood waters of inevitability pressing ever harder against the wall. Feverishly his mind kept up the effort, unwilling to let a brother slip away, even after he had realised the effort was hopeless. If he had given up every time something seemed impossible he would have died ten millennia ago, and so too would many of his brothers.

But effort, and determination, were not enough. He could feel his brother slipping away, being torn back into the warp. Before he knew it, he had nothing but an empty and motionless suit of armour on the slab before him. He could feel the anxious, silent stares of his cabal fall upon him. Had they realised what had happened? Had they seen the hand of another tear away Talas' soul? Or did they think the ritual had simply failed? Arlek would only be able to tell by forcing his way into their minds, something he rarely did to a brother, and which would only betray his concern. Selectively clouded foresight, and now a failure to raise his kin. What was causing this, who was doing this, was it even the same hand that was responsible for both? More immediately, did these limitations smack of weakness with his crew? They were more tightly bonded in brotherhood and purpose than many other warbands. But he knew it was foolish to deny the fact opportunistic betrayal was a possibility, particularly with jealous gods whispering in the ears of who knew how many men? A man only had to look to the birth of the black legion to see the risks.

Turning to the room, Arlek decided to seize the initiative.  
"We have regrettably failed to revive our brother." He spoke firmly and clearly, with a calm confidence he did not truly have. "But this is not the first time we have suffered such a setback. We will try again when the situation is right. For now we must save our strength. Return to your duties, and ready yourselves for what is to come. We are not yet done with the aeldari, nor do I suspect they are done with us. When next we meet, if combat is joined, I intend to deploy in force. Be ready." And with that he left, stalking down the ivory white corridors of the Shu, a lot more uncertain than he dared let on. His mind racing, trying to assemble a puzzle he was missing most of the pieces for. But one thing was certain. Soon the maiden world of Talithia would know the touch of the Thousand Sons.


	6. Chapter 6

A blade cut quick, and cut clean. Blood running down it's polished surface which gleamed in the sun. The sound of rich droplets of blood being cast upon a perfect floor of white marble. As the iron smell of it reached his nose he could almost taste the ichor's nobility and purity, as if it had belonged to a king. From somewhere beyond sight he could hear the sound of a woman weeping. Was it for the blood that had been spilled? Perhaps, but there was something more, something lurking just past the corner of his eye, something which eluded him.

At the end of the growing blood trail sat a jewel cut with precision and tenderness, the result of a life time of experience and loving craftsmanship. Picking it up in his hand he slowly turned it around to inspect it's every facet only to find each surface deeper than the last. In time it began to draw him in, no longer a jewel but a bottomless ocean of churning green and dreadful black, it's currents dragging him downwards, ever downwards. The pressure building, pressing against his skull, threatening to crush him like an egg. Resist, resist!

Suddenly he was back in that room of infinite white, pulling himself away from the gem he still clutched in his hand. The room was filling with smoke and fire, the white floor burning black and cracking in the heat. The air began to run thick with the smell of blood, but not the rich and refined blood of before that ran across the senses like a fine wine. This was dirty, thin and crude, the scent of lesser men. Adjust, adjust, adjust. He twisted something in the back of his mind, pulling at levers beyond perception. All at once, the crude smell of baser blood was gone, but the smoke and flames remained.

In time even the blade in his hand began to tarnish and warp in the immense heat. Again his mind pulled at the strings which controlled this display, tugging at the chains of causality in this bizarre, semi lucid state. Each change, each shift, the sword would last a little longer, but still the flames would rise, the smoke would crawl into his throat and fill his lungs, choking him. He was running out of options, ways to change this nightmare, but still he tried, and still the smoke kept rising. He could feel eyes upon him, a voice holding itself back, clasping its mouth closed in an effort to go unnoticed but struggling desperately against the urge to let it's tongue loose. Whose voice, whose eyes? Questions, questions for another time. A commodity there was precious little of.

But as hope began to run out a gap in the smoke appeared, all at once a door stood there, closed but the only way out of this infinite void. Dashing towards it he tried the handle, locked. The rising heat left little time for thought. His blade, still clean but not for long, was brought back and tore down upon the door with a terrible might, rending it clean in two. Suddenly something was behind him, looming in the smoke, there was no time to turn around. He ran, ran through the door frame and out into a clean white tunnel. There was a light, light at the end of the tunnel, refuge.

Then, it was gone, the strands of what was to be, what might be, fading from his sight. Replaced only with the meaningless blackness of closed eyes. Arlek had over ten millennia of experience with the eccentricities of the warp by now, and still it's ever shifting currents found ways to frustrate him. But then again, perhaps that was for the best. Those that the warp seemed to unreservedly favour usually discovered that they were its tool rather than the other way around. A discovery most often made when it was far too late. If the warp gave him everything he desired on a plate, he would be worried.

But no field was as maddeningly inconsistent as that of prophecy and divination. There were days where he could see what might come with as much clarity as if he were there. No mystery, no vaguery, a precise recreation. He could even change the way it played with little more than a thought, willing an outcome to unveil itself before him and having the knowledge of what was needed to achieve it manifest in his mind with an unwavering clarity. Such days were rare, even for him, but they did come. Other times all but the most immediate futures would be dead to him. The paths of fate locked away in walls of impenetrable mist. Today the great ocean chose to speak to him in metaphor and coded imagery, days like this were perhaps the most dangerous of them all. At least he knew the extent of his ignorance when the warp chose to dull his sight. But few things were as perilous as believing you understood the nature of the future, and being gravely mistaken. Any shape, sight or sound could mean any one of a hundred different things, and the warp spoke differently to every soul. Divining the symbols meaning was as much of a challenge as the act of picking them out from the webs of fate to begin with.

The warp had shown him some mercy that day, he had been able to hold on to the vision, replay it time and time again before his grip inevitably slackened. Each time he tried to subtly change something, make a different decision and observe how that effected that odd, lucid dream. Through such methods he had determined the blade were his astartes, whilst the gem was his prize. Other parts of the vision he determined through educated guess work, the rich scent of precious blood spoke of lives beyond mere mortality, greater daemons, eldar, astartes, powerful psykers. Of those only the eldar seemed likely that day, most of his own brothers having long since parted with their blood.

Other images had been so vague as to be dangerous in their imprecision, smoke, fire, something out of sight, a strange exit. Beyond the inevitability of violence and the need for a hasty escape it told him little. Such were the frustrations of the great ocean. Frustrations which were as nothing compared to the great darkness that lay beyond this battle. Still something persisted in obscuring his sight, he had to battle for every morsel and he could only ever claw away enough secrets to drag him one step further, without knowing where the path would truly lead, or what ground it would cross. The idea that he was a blinkered horse, following an ever-retreating carrot dangled in front of him did not escape him. But what choice did he have? The galaxy was offering him few opportunities.

Arlek slowly opened his eyes as he felt reality suddenly reassert itself, looking past the tactical overlays of his helm's augmented vision, past the slowly opening screen that shielded the bridge crew from the warp, and down upon the world of Talithia, which now lay beneath him. It had never been an important world, when it was an Imperial colony it was barely a foot note. No one even considered reoccupying it after it fell. Even to the aeldari, who valued every shred of their old lives, this maiden world was insignificant when compared to some others. But it had been occupied. Arlek was relying on that insignificance, that Iyanden would be both unable and unwilling to send their scant forces to this remote world with any speed or conviction.

"Auguries, report on the surface." Directed Arlek from his command chair.  
"My Lord. The augur array reports a breathable atmosphere, tolerable temperatures, liquid water and varied biomes. There are traces of abandoned settlements below. But at this distance further detail is not possible." The crewman who had said these words soon found Arlek's unflinching gaze fall upon his neck, his mere presence conveying dissatisfaction without the need for a single word. It was the smartly dressed Talodax, immaculate in his Prosperine uniform, that intervened and spared the man Arlek's ire.  
"Readjust you scan to compensate for a tri rotational dispersal field, and a type X-7 hololithic projector." These were old eldar tricks, often used to fool mon-keigh scans. The xenos had tweaked the methods across the millennia, but the core principles were still the same. The Shu had spent far too long fighting aeldari, drukhari and corsairs alike to have not gotten wise to these methods.

After a few moments the crewman who had so narrowly avoided Arlek's displeasure reported.  
"My Lord. There is something there but it is unclear."  
"Focus your efforts, just north of the equator. Grid 15-D Sub grid 58-34." There was a moments pause at the specificity of Arlek's directions but no one dared to question him. After a few moment's work and a slight murmur of incredulity the report eventually came back.  
"My Lord, we have discovered a xenos compound of aeldari design. It is orbited by patchwork net of grazing land and agri compounds in amongst the woods. It does not appear to be fortified. Resonant power signatures suggest a settlement of a few thousand xenos."  
"Be more specific."  
"Approximately four to six thousand my Lord." That was more than Arlek had bargained for, but not enough to dissuade him. However, those around him were a little more concerned with how Arlek knew where to look. For his part, he was content to let them speculate, or put it down to his arcane and mystical powers. On another day such gossip may even have been right. But for now he was relying on his scholarly knowledge. Gleaned from the pages of captured texts, or torn from imprisoned minds. That site lay upon the ancient web way gate and terraforming complex, abandoned in the wake of the fall. He knew the aeldari would commence their rebuilding there. Few things drew that ancient race more powerfully than the bones of their dead and the ashes of their glory.

But a location was not the only thing Arlek had learned. With a few brief button taps Arlek activated a hololithic projector mounted in the floor in front of his command chair, it cast a transparent green 3D map of the settlement and its surrounding region. Some details were vague, xenos trickery still forcing some degree of imprecision. A situation that was only complicated by the Shu's great range and her own steps to camouflage herself.  
"Brothers." He said, causing his chosen lieutenants to take a few steps closer towards him from where they waited in the corners of the bridge. "We remain undetected. We have the element of surprise. But it will not last. We must move swiftly. The foe's settlement lays upon a great webway gate that links to craft world Iyanden, amongst other places. This gate must be sealed or destroyed before the enemy can call for reinforcements." Turning to the monolithic form of his most robust brother he said. "Rhydel, I leave this task to you." Gesturing to a point at the centre of the settlement he continued. "The gate is located here. You will take your Sekhmet, three full squad of rubricae, a pair of hellbrutes and the defiler Maledictus Fatum . You may also unleash as many daemons as you feel appropriate and controllable. You will enter via warprift at the gate itself." Arlek could feel the slight sense of trepidation at those words. There was a reason why he favoured shuttle and drop pod insertion when practicable. To float your astral body in the immaterium was a gamble. But to cast your physical form within it bordered on reckless. To walk through it, as a man, and emerge on the other side intact was an impossible task for almost any creature in the galaxy. There was a reason why no mortal men were going with Rhydel. Few traitor astartes could even manage such a feat. The Thousand Sons were alone in their affinity for this ability, and the prospect caused even them pause.

The conversation which followed took place in a single heart beat, thoughts passing between Rhydel and Arlek at speed words could not convey, and with a richness and depth of meaning that defied translation.  
"Warp rift insertion. Why not drop pods brother?"  
"Imprecise, and capable of intercept. Besides they are limited in number, and I need them elsewhere."  
"But rift insertion? Thunderhawks and lesser transports would be preferable if drop pods are unavailable."  
"No they are not, the xenos will not have left the gate undefended. Not after the incident at Biel-Tan. Their AA cover is unknown, but it will be strongest there." They did not need to speak for Rhydel's caution and concern to be obvious, even after Arlek's justifications. But nor did they need to speak to sense that Arlek was resolved on this point, the plan would not change. So Rhydel did as he ought, and fell into complicity.

When Arlek next spoke, it was aloud once more.  
"Brother Sylvian. You shall take your celeri rubricae, three squads of conventional rubricae and two hellbrutes. You will be inserted via drop pods to the north of the settlement. You strike shall be simultaneous with brother Rhydel's. There are roughly five thousand aeldari below, perhaps more. This place may not be fortified, but it will be defended. We can expect Iyanden to have left some aspect warriors and wraith guard behind. But this exodite world will have an unusually large contingent of rangers upon it. We should be prepared for a robust mobile defence as a result. But they will be anticipating the assault to be aimed at taking territory. It will not. Sylvian, you shall use your forces to play hell with the xenos perimeter defences. Confound them by seeking to do nothing but kill, move fast and move constantly, avoiding predictable pushes towards the town itself. I expect you to make liberal use of daemons to further this aim but do not allow the creatures to run rampant in the settlement."

Adjusting the hololithic display Arlek moved it's focus to a point a little outside the main battle zone, one that the cogitators believed to be beyond the range of likely eldar AA emplacements. The terrain was flat and open, obscured from the town itself by a thick belt of trees. Vulnerable to enemy fire, if there were guns trained on it, but perfect for his purposes otherwise.  
"I will take three rubricae squads, a land raider platoon and two predator platoons as well as a company of spire guard in mechanised transports. We shall use our thunderhawks and other associated transports to land in this field. By this point the xenos will be too poorly coordinated to mount any meaningful resistance at the landing site. Then, I shall hook around the line of trees and approach the town to relieve brother Rhydel. Orisian, you will be with me. Once we arrive your job is to move through the population as swiftly as you can and secure bonesingers and any raw material you judge important. Simultaneously other forces in the town will knock out any AA emplacements that may have been discovered. Once this is done all troops will converge on the town square to load back into transports and return to the Shu. Are there any questions?"

What answered Arlek at first, was not questions, but silence. Very few of the spire guard had been deployed. But, the vast majority of their brothers were being committed to this effort. The risk that entailed was huge, a defeat here could gut the warband, forcing them to build again or become part of a more major host. It was no secret that Arlek had remained loyal to his old cult master, Ahriman, across the millennia. They would have a haven with him, Arlek and his host had answered Ahriman's call many times before. But that knowledge scarcely relieved their concerns. It was not the mere the risk of losing power that troubled them. It was the risk of losing brothers. The rubricae could not be resurrected without recovering their armour or forging a new set, and psyker sacrifices were not as common as one might like. Other, less stable, methods of resurrection did exist, but there were not to be desired.

But more than that, so many living, breathing sorcerers would be leading them, many of whom had stood with Arlek since before Prospero fell. To lose them, when so few remained, would be a tragedy, a wound that never healed. Orisian waivered on the edge of objecting, but it did not take a psyker to know Arlek's mind. Every inch of his body radiated purpose and firm intent. This was where he would have his bonesingers, the future of the legion demanded it.

So when Orisian did speak, it was only after coming to terms with the fact that this mission was going to happen.  
"My Lord. I note you commit many of our brothers, but few spire guard. Would it not be prudent to risk mortals instead?"  
"Normally you would be correct Orisian. However, I have gazed long into the strands of what is to come." Arlek's answer was matter of fact, and quietly confident. "Much remains unclear, particularly how this journey will end. But, in almost every iteration, the presence of too many mortals and too few astartes leads to disaster. Furthermore, we must have as few men as is possible on the ground."  
"Why is this?" Queried Sylvian, with the sound of metal gently gliding against metal as his armoured fingers stroked the jawline of his helmet in thought.  
"Speed of exfiltration." Answered Rhydel before Arlek could talk, the man's already hard voice made deep and booming by his terminator armour. "We have limited aerial troop transports. Easier to transport a little over a hundred and thirty astartes than the thousands it would take for mortals to do the task." Slowly turning his head towards Arlek he continued. "I imagine this is why we bring only a single deamon engine, the Maledictus Fatum. She could be lifted by a team of thunderhawks. But why brother, do you feel such speed is necessary?" Rhydel's tone carried a note of accusation in it, as if he believed Arlek was not being entirely forthcoming.

Before he answered Arlek adjusted the hololithic image, panning up and away from the battlefield, through the atmosphere and out into a model of the planetary system. Gesturing to the outermost of two moons, a barren ball of rock and ice, he eventually said.  
"Because, in orbit around that moon sits a second major webway portal. That gate was primarily used for large spacefaring vessels. You can fit a battleship through with room to spare. Fortunately, it has fallen in to disuse. But I believe it remains functional, just forgotten. We cannot ignore the possibility that something may emerge. If it does, we may not have time for a lengthy extraction."  
"Then we should destroy it first!" Urged Orisian, only to meet with Arlek's slowly shaking head.  
"No. To do so we would have to discharge our weapons. We are currently running dark. Such a display would be detectable from the surface. By the time we draw close enough to begin our invasion the town will either have been evacuated or reinforced, neither of which is tolerable."

The three brothers cast brief glances at one another, whilst Arlek remained sat in his command chair, staring out at the planet that lay before them as if he were gazing into destiny. Even though their faces were obscured, it was clear that these men were unsettled. Arlek was an Arch Magister, his wisdom and power had been proven over ten millennia of war and struggle. More than that, he was their brother, one who had guided them through crises and never ceased striving to save them from the seemingly inevitable. It was this reputation, a legacy of success and trust well earned, that meant every astartes here would follow him in this plan. But had a lesser man proposed such an effort, the notion would have been dismissed.

Even so, Rhydel was anxious to ensure Arlek was as confident as he seemed.  
"Brother, even at the lower end of the estimations the xenos will have an advantage of over thirty men to every astartes. That rises to more than fifty to one at the higher estimations. Against any other foe this would be no concern, but aeldari." This question drew a dryly amused short of laughter from Sylvian.  
"I never thought we would live to see the day when Magister Rhydel quivered in his boots." He jibed, all be it with a certain levity. Rhydel and Sylvian may have frequently clashed, but they were still brothers.  
"I do not quiver Sylvian. Though you would do well to learn a little caution." Arlek raised a hand to stop Sylvain's inevitable rebuttal, instead answering Rhydel's original question.  
"This is a largely civilian target. Every craftworld aeldari may serve time in their militia. But a few thousand guardians, unprepared, unarmoured and many without access to their weapons, will not be an obstacle. Even armed such men pose little danger without the rest of their war machine." It was true astartes had little to fear from part time soldiers armed with shuriken catapults, whilst rubricae were almost entirely immune to their efforts.  
"But it will not just be guardians and civilians." Pressed Orisian. "There will be aspect warriors, wraithguard and vehicles."  
"Most of which will be on the perimeter along with the rangers, and Sylvian is more than able to occupy their attention, and their numbers will be slight, vehicle support even slighter."

There was no doubt that Arlek believed in this mission, and something about his conviction carried a trace of his certainty to his kin, even though he did not use his powers upon them. But Arlek was not done yet.  
"Captain Talodax, approach." He casually commanded, beckoning the man forward with an easy gesture. The smartly dressed mortal marched toward his Lord, coming to a halt with a parade ground snap, his crimson Prospereen uniform seemingly devoid of a single crease.  
"Yes, Lord Erelash."  
"At ease Captain. You will have a part to play to in all of this as well." Turning his attention to the display Arlek continued. "In my absence you will have command of the Shu. Place yourself in a position to protect our mission from any space born eldar interference. Geostationary orbit above us would seem ideal but I leave the details to your discretion. You will be responsible for ensuring that we have a safe corridor for evacuation. But, you also have another role." Before explaining himself Arlek quickly typed in a worryingly lengthy code into one of his command chair panels. In answer, the machine spirit spoke through the bridge vox speakers.  
"Ordnance L.E.V. 15-7-892, unlocked and ready for loading." Those junior crew in the room did not react, for they did not truly know what they had just heard. But the mood amongst the senior staff visibly shifted, it was one of surprise, bordering on shock. Only Sylvian appeared to be excited by the announcement.  
"Lord Erelash, you mean to deploy the life eater virus?" Enquired Talodax with a confused and startled tone.

His reaction was scarcely unmerited, the life eater was a weapon of exterminatus, designed to eradicate all life upon a planet. Its design may have been old, but it was still hideously effective, and no countermeasure had been found for it. Even sealed environmental suits and protected habitats seemed ineffective in the face of such a terrible weapon. But to deploy the life eater virus against an eldar maiden world would be a particularly grievous blow. The thousands of Aeldari lives that would be lost would be injury enough, but that was as nothing to the environmental damage that would ravage the surface of the world. Forests would become liquid lakes of bio-organic slurry. Grazing herds of animals would scream in agony as the flesh boiled and sloughed from their bones, running like seething rivers in between the rocks. Even microscopic bacteria deep in the trenches of the sea or locked in ice would break apart and melt. Nothing, nothing would survive. To worsen the blow the gasses released from the chemical collapse of all life on the planet would choke the atmosphere with highly combustible substances. A single errant spark could burn away all trace of the atmosphere, leaving this verdant garden nothing more than blasted rock. This would be a terrible fate under any circumstances. But to the aeldari it would be so much worse, and Arlek knew it. These maiden worlds were their future, carefully terraformed over tens of thousands of years to be perfect for colonization. The xenos valued them greatly, and defended them jealously. To rip this world away would be a scar upon their entire species.

But to everyone's surprise Arlek shook his head.  
"I do not intend for this weapon to be used. It is a tool for negotiation. If things go wrong, and the situation cannot be maintained, were shall threaten to fire this weapon upon the surface. Hopefully this will allow us to negotiate a withdrawal, or at least take advantage of their inevitable hesitancy to escape." His tone however, suddenly became harder, filled with iron and stone. "But if the threat should fail Talodax, you are to ensure that the galaxy knows Arch Magister Arlek Erelash does not bluff." Despite Arlek's obvious determination to carry his threat out, there was a seemingly obvious flaw, one Talodax was quick to point out.  
"My Lord, will you and your forces not still be upon the surface?"  
"This is A means of last resort Captain, but we will not be on the surface. If possible, we will be in our transports when you fire. If not, we shall be forced to resort to warp rifts." To extract a force that size by warp rift would be a challenge, even to one such as Arlek, and without proper planning could be disastrous. Casualties would almost certainly be inevitable, but this was the nightmare scenario. To make matters worse the shields of the Shu would almost certainly be raised if battle was joined, making the task even harder. It was likely that they would be forced to go to some third location and move on from there. But, Arlek did have a plan.

"You all have your orders." He declared. "The warp has granted us a boon, and we have translated well within the system and close to our quarry. But it will still take a full day for us to reach our target. All of you, see to your preparations. We strike as soon as we are able." With that his men set about their appointed tasks whilst he remained ensconced in his command chair upon it's slightly raised dais. Working under the gaze of the blue jackal was like toiling beneath the statue of some long forgotten god. Only here the strange sensation of an ancient, almost unknowable, intelligence staring upon you with the weight of history was not an illusion.

Things remained like this until the shift change came. Arlek did not need rest but he left the bridge in the hands of the officer of the watch anyway. He meanwhile returned to his quarters, he had meant to keep on analysing renewed augur data as it came in, tweaking his plans as required. But he found his attention drifting time and time again to a moth eared pack of cards sitting at the corner of his desk. Idly Arlek leant back in his specially reinforced chair and cracked open the yellowed paper box, thumbing through the delicate strips of card with a lightness of touch you would seldom have expected from armoured fingers.

There was nothing remarkable about this collection, save for how utterly uncoordinated it was. This was far from Ahriman's ancient and pristine collection of occult prophetic cards. This was a random hotchpotch of human cards from the dark age of technology, modern creations that had fluttered across his path, xenos pict cards from a dozen different races and any other number of assorted odds and ends. By now the collection caused the pack to bulge alarmingly, splitting at the seams. The images meant nothing to him, he had never been one to trust in cartomancy, it practically ensured every possible trap of misinterpretation that the warp could lay, would be laid. No, these cards meant something far less practical.

With a speed and precision that went beyond astartes reflexes, and spoke of prior experience, he created a large house of cards. The pyramid was delicate beyond reason, a stiff breeze would topple the entire edifice. Picking a face card, the flower of Iris, out at random in his mind he focused on it for the briefest of moments before placing two fingers in a seemingly arbitrary location in the air. Suddenly his free hand smacked down upon the desk, collapsing the entire tower, dozens upon dozens of uncontrollable, unpredictable factors pilled upon one another to send the cards fluttering all about. The direction and force of his hand, the grain of the desk, the current of the air, the vibration of the ship, the impact of cards striking one another as they tumbled through the air. All combined to make the path of the cards seemingly random. But one thin sliver settled neatly between his two outstretched fingers, the flower of Iris.

Arlek allowed a brief smirk to cross his face at this, before setting up on tower once more. He was interrupted by Rhydel's sudden appearance.  
"Enter Rhydel!" He called out, a moment before the man knocked. At times Arlek wondered why his brother even bothered with such an archaic gesture when visiting him, they both knew that he could sense Rhydel's intention to enter long before he ever got there. Then again, old habits die hard. Rhydel for his part had to undergo the minor indignity of squeezing his terminator frame through a door built for more normal astartes, to his credit, he managed it with as much grace as was possible.

Arlek held back a chuckle at the sight and instead gestured to his newly built tower.  
"Do you remember Ahzek building these to demonstrate the principles of prescience?"  
"No, but I was not Corvidae. I do remember you showing it to me though, several times." Rhydel's tone was as deadpan as ever but Arlek was unphased.  
"Not boring you am I?" He quipped.  
"No, no. I have known you for over ten thousand years, I have long since gotten used to the odd repetition." Arlek let a muted chuckle escape his lips only to be silenced by Rhydel saying. "Nine of swords." In answer to a question he had not yet been asked. Arlek wondered if maybe he really was starting to repeat himself just a little too much.

Still though, he slammed his hand into the desk again, sending the thin strips cascading down whilst one select piece settled neatly between his fingers. Turning it about with a triumphant flourish he showed the nine of sword to his brother before starting to rebuild the structure once more.  
"Is it just the nostalgia that drives you to do this? Or is there some function?" Asked Rhydel, with a slightly uncharacteristic note of biting criticism to his tone.  
"There is an element of practice as well." Answered Arlek distractedly, his mind on the tower.  
"But this must be child's play to you by now." Pressed Rhydel.  
"It is, it is. But it is always wise to practice the basics from time to time as well. You would be surprised how fast an edge grows rusty." Rhydel could only snort in response. Astartes memories were near perfect, a lesson or skill once learned was seldom forgotten. True, the ways of the warp were stranger than most. But he doubted his brother needed this refresher.

Rhydel just watched as Arlek finished building the tower once more, declared which card he would catch, place his fingers in exactly the right place, slam down his hand and let the card settle in just the right spot between his fingers.  
"Your powers of foresight still ebb low do they not?" Rhydel asked, seemingly out of nowhere, though Arlek could tell where this line of questioning was going even without a psyker's gifts.  
"It is more complicated than that, it is as if something is intentionally obscuring this path."  
"Then why follow it?" It was a valid question, but it vexed Arlek, causing him to pause in the midst of rebuilding his tower.  
"Precisely because something is obscuring it!" He retorted with frustration and exasperation in his voice. "It is something worth concealing, it is therefore likely something worth finding as well. And this is the best lead we have found to aid in restoring the legion for a long time. I cannot let this slip through my fingers!" Rhydel meanwhile remained stoic, and calm, a towering and unmoving behemoth.  
"I worry that it is not this strange force that is blinding you, but your guilt." Rhydel raised a hand to silence the objection he knew was coming. "I will not say you should not feel guilt for what you and the others wrought. It was well intentioned, and better than anything our father was doing. It saved some of us, when all of us might have perished. But too many were lost, and your rightly carry the guilt with you. You rightly try to mend what you helped to break. But there is no point in letting it consume you whole. You cannot fix anything if you are dead brother." Rhydel's tone was quietly scalding, worse than raised voices and yelled protests. It's bite was made all the worse for the genuine and heartfelt, note of concern in his voice. He loved his brother, in ways only an astartes could.

Arlek sighed heavily, he could scarcely be angry at such concerns, even if Rhydel was getting under his skin a little. Pausing to put the last two cards in their place atop the pyramid he eventually answered.  
"I will not die tomorrow. I will not die Rhydel."  
"And the rest of us?"  
"We will be bruised, but not broken." Offered Arlek, by way of slightly muted reassurance. But Rhydel was unconvinced.  
"Are you sure, several thousand aeldari against less than two hundred of us?"  
"The foe is unprepared, poorly equipped and largely comprised of people who do not walk the path of the warrior and never have. Meanwhile we have the element of surprise, we have arms and armour, superior ability and our dust bound brothers are almost un-killable." Arlek was digging in his heels and it showed, but Rhydel was not easily moved by such displays.  
"Almost, and this is Iyanden we are facing. There may be more wraith guard with D-Scythes."  
"A risk worth the taking, a risk we have to take brother."

Rhydel was still not satisfied with this answer, but it was becoming clear that he would have no other. But he had to provide a final warning to his ancient brother.  
"Just remember, do not chase after every scent, even if it smells sweet. We have waited more than ten thousand years. We can wait a little longer in the name of caution." Rhydel didn't need to wait for an answer, just as Arlek knew he did not need to give one. Even without being touched by the great ocean some things didn't need to be said to be heard.

Moving towards the door Rhydel paused to say one last thing.  
"Queen of souls." He offered, in an effort to lighten the mood. At least it made Arlek smile for a brief moment as he put his fingers in just the right spot, watching Rhydel leave. When his brother at last pushed his way through and closed the door the jarring impact scattered the cards. As ever one floated down into Arlek's waiting fingers. Turning it about to read the face of the card Arlek suddenly stopped. It was not the queen of souls that looked back at him. But instead the dancing, grinning, form of the jester, the fool.


	7. Chapter 7

One of the Shu's many mess halls had been converted into a ritual chamber Arcane symbols etched into the walls, profanely blessed candles placed in eccentric patterns across the floor, and the thrumming chant of bound thralls made the room almost unrecognisable. The air pulsed with an invisible and unstable power, threatening to tear reality asunder at the slightest mispronunciation of a single syllable. At the centre of it all stood Rhydel and his vexillation of Arlek's force. Ranks of neatly arrayed rubricae, standard and terminator alike, stood like the unmoving sentinels of a long-forgotten tomb. Their sorcerous brothers paced between their ranks, shifting the currents of the warp with every blasphemous whisper and twisted gesture. In sharp juxtaposition to the silent vigil of the rubricae, two hell brutes stood hunched over near the front of the group. Shoulders heaving in pained, wet breathes as their chemical sedatives wore away and the maddened souls within were forced to confront the agony of their mere existence. Their tortured and stripped flesh rippled with unnatural muscle. Plates of armour had been welded and riveted directly into screaming skin. Hydraulic pistons and terrifying weapons protruded from the grotesque display, as much a part of the writhing organic mass as anything else. Even the frayed nerves of the broken soul that had once been a man were grafted into the warp-infused nervous system of this beast, a system as much comprised of crude cables as organic neurons.

To a layman's eye it looked like a soldier had outgrown his armour, forcing it apart as his flesh rebelled, plate after plate of ceramite hastily applied in a futile effort to cover the growth. But the truth of these twelve foot tall monsters, almost as broad as they were tall and with shoulders swollen above their heads, was far worse. These profane abominations of flesh and metal were painstakingly constructed through the biomantic union of vat-grown muscle and forge-cast metal. But the thirsting engines of this brutal machine required a fuel far more powerful than mere promethium or plasma. Only the torment of a soul not permitted to die could drive this monster.

And so it was that eager fools, searching for answers that they would not receive, were sought out by the sorcerers of the 15th. Only the suffering, and power, of an astartes would suffice, but the eye of terror was not short of over ambitious legionnaires who would follow the scent of power without thinking where it might lead. The Thousand Sons would offer these men tutelage in the ways of the warp, asking merely that these warriors remember the debt they owed to the 15th Legion when the time came. But in truth, every flicker of waking ethereal power was their soul slowly being bound to the machine. Some realised what was happening, but none realised it soon enough.

By the end these once proud warriors were reduced to quivering piles of semi dissolved organs, gibbering flesh, broken nervous tissue and a screaming soul. This last vestige of a man was placed within the machine, a construct that would keep the spirit eternally alive, and the pain of his existence would drive the beast. Bound forever to the wills of those who had deceived him. Such was the price of hubris, and ignorance.

But even they were dwarfed by the maladectus fatum. No two defilers were exactly alike but every one of these daemon engines was a terror straining to be free. Most of these armoured behemoths moved across the battle field on six stocky, multi jointed legs, arranged like an arachnid. But the maladectus fatum was held up by nine such appendages, the unmatched leg protruding from the front of the beast. All three of its fore legs doubled as arms, ending in crude grasping claws reminiscent of great industrial grabbers that could pluck burning rock from molten metal. Sitting atop the centre of this web of legs was a great armoured box that was part torso, part head. Protruding from the centre of this citadel of a body was a great cannon, one that had broken innumerable fortresses and sundered countless armoured rivals over the millennia. The maw of the great gun was shaped like a bird's beak, poised to snap upon its prey. Where a man might have expected arms only more weapons could be found. At its right side sat twin heavy bolters, crafted through arts forgotten to the Imperium and loaded with warp touched shells more destructive than anything mortals could create. Whilst at its left were affixed a pair of las cannons, their cells over charged with a sorcerous power to burn through the thickest of armours. The gleaming hull of the maladectus fatum had been painted in the colours of the thousand sons, and engraved with labyrinthine arcane runes, to both empower and restrain the hungering demon within.

No mere trifling spirit was contained within, this howling creature of the empyrian was one that could devour worlds given time. Lesser creatures of the warp fled at the mere mention of its name. But the ingenuity of the dark mechanicum had trapped this spirit within metal and circuitry, sating its hunger through battle. A mortal in the presence of such a construct would feel his flesh crawl and his senses quiver. Even the air around the maladectus fatum seemed to bend and twist in an impossible heat haze.

It was fortunate then, that no mere mortals would be striding into battle alongside this profane demonic engine. Foremost amongst those warriors was Rhydel, who was now looking into the eyes of Arlek's helmet as the pair shook hands. It was strange to see such a common, mortal gesture between astartes. But few other things seemed appropriate.  
"Good luck" Were Arlek's final words to Rhydel before the mission. But Rhydel knew, luck was something the 15th had never had.

The chanting reached a fever pitch as Arlek turned to walk away, the gentle shift of his heavy cape became a swirl of writhing, screaming colour, as the warp closed around Rhydel and his brothers. To cast your subtle body into the great ocean was dangerous enough for even seasoned men, but to throw your material body into it was to tempt fate in the worst possible way. In that terrible moment Rhydel felt his flesh want to tear itself apart, to burst open at the seams and take a thousand forms all at once. It was as if the rubric had failed for one awful second, and the flesh change was upon him once again. A brief glimpse of those times was enough to bring the desperation and pain of years of struggle against the legion's treacherous genes roaring back to the surface. But his discipline had only hardened since then, he supressed the revolution. Willed, no commanded, his mortal form to be still and obey!

In the next moment reality reasserted itself. The incomprehensible tides of the warp were replaced by picturesque blue sky, verdant trees, bleached white buildings and the faces of some extremely surprised looking aeldari. A single pulse of thought was all Rhydel's troops needed to commence their grim business. The gentle chirrup of bird song was instantly drowned by the thunder of massed bolter fire, a storm that was punctuated by the drone of soul reaper cannons and the blasts of explosions. The civilians that had been milling about the square stood little chance, even those guardians who stood watch over the gate were no match for this terrible combination of overwhelming fire power and total surprise. No sooner had the last xenos body hit the ground than Rhydel was already issuing silent orders to the minds of his sorcerers and rubricae. Most of his battle brothers quickly moved to take vital buildings around the edge of the square, whilst he, his terminators, the hell brutes and the daemon engine remained by the webway portal.

Turning his attention to vast gate of wraithbone Rhydel appeared to be disinterested in the occasional blasts of gun fire behind him as his rubricae encountered stragglers. All his attention lay upon the elegant xenos architecture before him. But unlike Arlek he did not see the beauty of their alien craft, or dwell upon the heights and follies of the near dead culture that had created it. All Rhydel saw was a door that he needed to lock. With a deliberate and methodical technique he set about sealing the currents of energy that allowed this portal to tap into the webway, like driving bolts home on a door. It was simplistic, almost crude, an insult to the subtle complexities of the gate. But it worked, and it worked well. Why indulge in elaborate artistry when plain directness will suffice?

As the gate fell into inactivity a taste in the air that Rhydel had never even noticed was there seemed to fall away and the world appeared almost muted. An artificial clarity had been lost, but as the sensation faded he was struck by the quiet. It was so total he almost missed it. No more gunfire, no screaming, no running feet, even the birds of moments ago had gone. Just the breeze in the trees. No battle field was ever this quiet.

The inside of the drop pods however, were anything but quiet. The sound of the planet's atmosphere smashing against the armoured panells was like the crashing of a wild and wasteful ocean. Even in their restraints the astartes within were shaken with such force the bones of mere mortals would have snapped under the strain. But such things were trivialities to them, doubley so those who no longer had bones to break. Sylvian simply stood in impatient silence, expecting to meet at least some AA fire, but finding none. All at once the world seemed to implode as the drop pod hit the surface of this xenos world. The interior rang as if an artillery blast had taken place within a misstuned bell. Outside soil and foilage was thrown into the air before falling like rain, grass singed and smoulderd as the retro thrusters sputtered into silence.

In less than the beat of a single heart the drop pod doors slammed down with startling speed, and Sylvian leapt out with an enthusiasm that was scarcely seen amongst the thousand sons. The robotic detatchment of the Sekhmet that Perterabo had so admired was not to be seen as Sylvian tore between the trees like the wind. The rangers were here, of that there was no doubt. Hide as they might from even the advanced augary sensors of crusade era power armour, twisted and enhanced beyond the ability of mortal minds by the ruinous powers. They could not hide from the sorcerous sight of Sylvian and his lesser mages. Bolter rounds blew them clean from their cover, blasts of warp fire bured away the shrubs in which they hid and the aeldari inside them, with an almost insulting ease, and the blades of Sylvian and his celeri rose up to cut the defenders down from even the highest tree tops.

The celeri were a rarity amongst the thousand sons. Even during the heyday of the great crusade thiers was not a legion known for racing headlong into the madness of close combat to carve a bloody path through the foe. Such things were better left to madmen like the dogs of Russ or World Eaters. But the 15th was not without its swordsmen. Sanakht had been the most famous of them but the Khenentai blademasters of old were not without their lustre. Sylvian had revived that tradition, and equipped them with blasphemously constructed jump packs turning them into a lethal close assault force to rival the raptor cults and warp talons of other legions. Certainly his foes would care little about the difference as their chests were cleaved open and their heads were struck from their shoulders.

It was only the slower speed of the hellbrutes and rubricae that stopped Sylvian and his celari from tearing off into the woods like a pack of wild hunters. As enthused as they were, they were still men of the 15th and had enough awareness and discipline to not stray too far from the bulk of their force. Sylvian had not forgotten Arlek's plan, and with various pulses of thought to the sorcerors under his command, he directed his band to move towards the town, then away again, circle to the left, the right and then the left again. Whilst the force was slowly rotating around the town in an anti-clockwise direction, their path was the model of unpredictability, each turn devoid of reason or discernable objective. Well laid traps would be bypassed entirely, only to be suddenly assault from some unknown direction. Xenos reinforcements of rangers and guardians from the town as the defenders awoke would find themselves caught in detail. Silent mouthes and roaring engines tearing down from the canopy to carve through them with an unsettling blend of clinical precision and horrendous brutality, only to vanish before the eldar troops turned to face their foes.

It was not long before the eldar forces ceased attempting to assault Sylvian's men altogether, each blow seemed to hit nothing but empty air, before receiving a vicious counter strike. Instead a handful of rangers simply tried to shadow the unpredictable movements of Sylvian's force. Whilst the bulk of the xeno's defenders tried to mirror the 15th legion's movements in an effort to always stay between the foe and the town. Sylvian dearly wanted to turn to strike the aeldari directly, in the beautifuly enhanced reality of the second enumeration the surprise of the xenos at the elegance with which he cut them down was a sensation to savour. But Arlek's orders were clear, he only had to strike their peripheral defences and keep the main force distracted from both Arlek's column and the town centre, nothing more. For now

Arlek meanwhile was watching the last of his heavy transports dusting off from the planet's verdant surface having unloaded her cargo of men and machines. Even now the mortal troops from his reformed spire guard were securing the belt of trees that lay between this clearing and the town. But Rhydel and Sylvian had done their jobs, his men had encountered no resistance to their initial landing. This was a blessing, for few things were as bloody as an opposed planet fall and Arlek could ill afford casualties.

Climbing into the transport compartment of the last land raider Arlek felt the vast beast begin to move. To most people the inside of this armoured behemoth would have been quite spacious, but to an astartes the confines were cramped and restrictive, the vast shoulder pads of the various marines knocking unceremoniously into one another as the vehicle rocked and juddered. But Arlek's mind did not linger in its material body. Unwilling to remain blind to what was going on beyond the confines of this armoured box he set his perceptions free to drift above the battle field like a bird. He could see the flashes of gun fire in the woods around the town as Sylvian and the eldar made fleeting contact after fleeting contact. He could see Rhydel and his men moving like ants near the centre of the town, the daemon engine looming large behind them. And he could see his own tanks advancing across open ground towards the settlement as fast as their engines would carry them.

It would be difficult for the defenders not to notice what was coming, the careless treads of over 40 vehicles threw dust and debris into the air whilst the chorus of their engines was like the bellow of an approaching dragon. But it was not subtlety that mattered now, it was speed, and this assault had that in abundance. The predators led the way, sporting a mix of weapon variances that spoke of the add-hoch manner in which these vehicles had been procured. As the assault drew closer the defenders at last managed to put some scattered shuriken fire on the vehicles, but such weapons could do little against armour. Every burst was answered by a hail of warp blessed heavy bolter shells that tore buildings apart as readily as they did flesh. This was not a military instillation, and the elegant wraithbone constructions had not been designed to withstand this kind of punishment. Even the solitary bright lance shot that glanced off of a deimos pattern predator's curved turret did little more than guarantee its own destruction, as the strike was met with a flurry of ethericaly pulsing heavy las fire.

Not long after, the armoured column smashed its way into the settlement itself. Garden walls and beautiful statuary stood little chance against tonnes of impatient metal. Arlek's vehicle moved on without pause toward the centre of town whilst the rest moved to secure key points across the town and knock out any AA emplacement, guarded by detachments of spire guard in case the worst should happen. Orisian meanwhile, had disembarked from his land raider along with two squads of rubricae and was rapidly moving through the buildings searching for bonesingers. A quick psychic test was all that would be needed to determine an eldar's craft and unless Orisian met a warlock, Arlek doubted anyone would be able to keep their minds safe from the sorcerer.

Content to let Orisian go about his work unsupervised Arlek brought his mind back to his body as his tank drew close to Rhydel. He had been expecting to find his brother under fire, not a serious assault perhaps, but an assault none the less. When he found the man standing idle near the gate he was surprised, an unsettling sensation to a seer. This unease showed itself in his firm, rapid pace as he descended the shallow ramp and approached his brother. "Report." He demanded, through a silent pulse of thought.  
"Resistance is minimal, barely any fire in the first few minutes and none since then." In the heat of battle both men guarded their emotions with an even greater caution than the fortress like walls they erected around themselves in tranquil times. But they did not need to reach into each other's minds to know that both of them were far from reassured by the quiet.

Each minute seemed to last an hour as nothing happened, and that nothingness only continued. When Orisian finally reported in it felt as if the sun had crossed the sky twice over.  
"Lord Erelash. The civilian population is almost entirely gone, I have found several small webway portals in basements and attics. The answer is obvious, they have evacuated." Arlek's mind began working fast, a dozen realisations struck him all at once, all of them dire. But his answer was swift and firm.  
"Brother Orisian. Redouble your efforts, no evacuation is perfect. Find me a bonesinger, and destroy every portal you find!" He had not yet lost faith in his vision, so hard fought from the warp. He would have his jewel, and what could it have been but a bonesinger?

But he was not so naïve as to believe this did not change his plans. His mind found Sylvian's. "Brother, the enemy will strike against us soon, and from within. Attack now with full force and drive toward the centre!" Sylvian's reply was not a word, but a feeling of affirmation and understanding, one that was swiftly followed by a hail of bolter fire on the outskirts of the town as he began his push. Those who stood against him were sandwiched between Sylvian's men to their front, Arlek's to their rear. But rather than fade and run as aeldari so often did in such circumstances, the xenos stood and fought in an uncharacteristic display. One that spoke of a broader design. The psychic conversation had been open to Rhydel, and the stalwart warrior's thoughts turned questioningly to Arlek.  
"From within?" He queried.  
"Those portals go both ways." Was all Arlek had to say, and Rhydel understood his meaning well enough. Both men were already giving psychic commands to their various troops to redeploy to guard against strikes from both within and without, when it began.

It first appeared as a shimmer in the corner of his eye, a trace of movement easily missed, had it not been for his life as an astartes he may well have. Both he and Rhydel turned fast upon the movement, the barrels of his brother's soulreaper already spinning in anticipation. Suddenly Rhydel pulled his aim up high, unleashing a hail of warp touched metal into the sky. Most men would have thought he had gone mad, as shots tore into nothing but air. When suddenly a body appeared as if from nowhere, it wore skin tight black clothes, interwoven with a diamond pattern of deep purple and azure blue. A leering white mask with a twisted and broken smile seemed unmoved even as blood erupted like a mist from its owners back. A long stream of red hair still flowed, even as a xenos pistol and blade fell to the floor with a clatter like glass, shortly followed by the unceremonious thump of a fine limbed body hitting the stone.

Before anyone had time to consider the implications of the torn and ragged xenos body which now lay upon the floor Arlek span on his heel, blade rising in a defensive sweep, a spark of etheric fire flaring from the edge of his sword as its sorcerously twisted power field made contact with some unseen substance. The impact forced the xenos trickery to fall and another garishly dressed alien was revealed. Compared to Arlek's its blade was a needle and the eldar wielded it with all the surgical precision that implied. Arlek's counter strike met with only empty air as his foe span and pirouetted away in a manner more reminiscent of ballet than a brawl. Arlek meanwhile closed the distance with the blunt directness only an astartes was capable of, one often confused for a lack of skill.

The xeno's stance shifted almost imperceptibly before it leapt into a feint and lunge with a grace to shame a swan. But none of that was able to prevent Arlek from evading her attack by mere centimetres and corkscrewing his body along the inside of her arm to deliver his elbow into her laughing mask. The force of astartes genetic engineering and the fibre bundled muscle of ancient power armour combined to shatter the mask like cheap porcelain, collapsing it into the eldar's face in a mess of broken bone and lacerated flesh. The creature had only just begun to scream when Arlek completed his rotation, sword arm held at his waist, and cut the aeldari clean in two.

These brightly dressed tricksters were no strangers to Arlek and his band, but their presence rarely meant anything good.  
"Harlequins." They thought in unison. The moment Orisian had reported the concealed portals they had known it was a trap, but now they knew who was springing it. Few forces had hounded the legion as much as these xenos bands, nor as effectively. But Arlek had survived their attempts for over ten thousand years, he would not let them triumph now.

"Contact, infantry, close!" Cried on of the Spire Guard officers over the vox, before a dull explosion on the edge of town marked the death of his chimera. Before the trail of black smoke that marked it's funeral pyre had even begun to rise the sound of gun fire erupted throughout the settlement. A mixture of las blasts, bolter shells and autocannons drowned out the near silent eldar weapons that responded to them. To add to the cacophony a flurry of contact reports came in over the vox. Harlequins, banshees, dire avengers, warpsiders, even vehicles had seemingly appeared from nowhere. Even the buildings on the outer edge of the central square, the core of Arlek's position, were engaged. In one fell swoop the eldar had deprived Arlek of his strong position, with good internal lines, flexible reserve and excellent fields of fire. And had turned his force into a series of isolated pockets to be overwhelmed one by one.

"Spire Guard forces! Hold your positions, do not allow the xenos to move past you toward the centre." His command was firm and confident, carrying with it a surety that allowed his mortal servants to believe they were fighting a hard but winnable battle to hold the town. But the truth was revealed in Arlek's secret psychic command to his sorcerers.  
"Astartes forces. Fall back to the last ring street around the town square, hold positions there. Those that cannot move, signal Sylvian. His force will relieve you." Sylvian's force was still concentrated, and highly mobile. Too large to be isolated by this rapid insertion, too fast to be encircled. But that provided little comfort to those mortal men who were looking over their shoulders for their predator support, only to see those venerated machines of war slide into reverse gear, and roll away under a protective cloud of smoke and gunfire. Without needing to reach for their minds Arlek could still taste their desperation and confusion on the wind. Why were these immortal warriors leaving? What were they supposed to do without them? But from those mortals with more sense Arlek could taste something else, the bitter sting that came from knowing you had been abandoned by those you had trusted.

The cold discipline of the enumerations prevented him from feeling guilt or remorse, for now at least. But he remembered a time, during that age of naïve optimism before Prospero burned, when neither he nor his brothers would ever have countenanced such an action. It was for the guardians of mankind to stand at the fore of unwinnable battles and allow their mortal wards to slink back to the rear to lick their wounds. There had been a time when ten astartes would have sacrificed themselves to save one good man. Now, in less time that it took for one of his hearts to beat, he had resolved to allow his mortal servants upon the ground to die, to buy his brothers mere minutes to reposition. It was this or lose his entire force, Arlek knew that. But still, had the times changed, or had he?

Regardless of the answer, the path was clear. Unwilling to wait for Orisian to find the bonesinger before calling for evacuation Arlek hailed the Shu in Orbit.  
"Shu, this is Lord Erelash. Send extraction at once."  
"Negative my Lord. We cannot comply." Replied Talodax "We are engaged." Aboard the bridge of Arlek's ancient and mighty grand cruiser, Captain Talodax was looking at the augur displays with despair. Three eldar contacts had emerged from behind the moon and were closing fast, it was only the Shu's enhanced equipment and veteran crew that had allowed them to pierce through the xenos trickery at all. Otherwise they may have been entirely surprised, and judging from the foe's vectors the Shu's own attempt at remaining concealed had failed as well. "If we dispatch small craft the xenos own small craft would catch and destroy them before they made planetfall." Unlike many of the frothing lunatics that Arlek was forced to call his allies in these dark times, he would not bite the head off a talented subordinate who only told him the facts.  
"Understood Shu, drive those aeldari craft off and send evac when practicable."  
"Understood my Lord, Shu out." But Captain Talodax knew those would not be easy orders to fulfil. If the augurs were to be believed a single shadow cruiser and two eclipse cruisers were on his tail. To see even a single aeldari cruiser was a rare sight, to see three was something most men would never hear even as a rumour. But Talodax would not ignore his Lord's orders.

When Arlek was on the bridge the crew translated his orders into the precise calculations and actions necessary to carry them out, often assisted by Talodax. But when Taldox had the bridge, he spoke in the crew's own technical terminology. One that had been passed down from generation to generation stretching back to the order of ruin itself and which at times felt only slightly removed from the mechanicum's own speech.  
"Starboard side manoeuvring thrusters, 65% thrust, for 4.6 seconds. Port side thrusters, fire reciprocal burst to kill momentum after 60 degree turn. On my mark…. Mark!" The Shu turned with a speed and grace most Imperial craft had long since lost, one that could easily make any observer forget the titanic forces involved in forcing thirty nine million tonnes of metal to turn against momentum. More promethium was burned off in this one manoeuvre than many shuttle craft would consume in their entire lives.  
"Enemy entering our port arc, maximum range!"  
"Plasma broadsides, target centre ship. Increase standard spread by 20 degrees on all axis. Adjust lead by positive 0.7" Such adjustments would usually lead to wildly inaccurate fire but these xenos moved faster than they appeared, and until the augury array had fully adjusted to the eldar holofields these ships were rarely where they seemed. Focused fire was likely to hit nothing at all. "Fire!" He barked, but despite Talodax's best efforts, nothing was all his initial broadside managed to hit.

He did not have time to imagine the smug faces of his foes as the primitive humans flailed blindly in the dark. Instead he was sifting through his sensor data whilst the crew below hastily reloaded. He ignored the jumping sensor trace of the xenos craft, it gave only a vague impression as to their location. Instead he was looking for small disturbances in the light from background stars, interrupted plasma trails, imperceptibly small bends in projectile courses due to gravity. Eventually he saw one such trace, a star that glimmered briefly for no apparent reason. Hastily he took the direction and speed from the sensor ghost but laid it atop of the suspected location of the xenos craft. His mind ran hot as he parsed the various equations necessary to target the shot without sensor lock, but it did not stop him from calling out.  
"Broadside to fire on vector 278, 196."  
"Broadside loaded!"  
"Fire!" Another series of burning blue orbs hurtled across the void, trailing tails like demonic comets. Talodax's eye followed them anxiously, switching over to the hololithic display from the augary when they had gone beyond the limits of human sight. His stomach clenched as they approached the spot he thought the foe occupied, releasing suddenly as the sensors displayed several shots coming to an abrupt halt as they detonated against some unseen object. In an instant the lead eldar craft registered as a normal contact, it's true location revealed as the sensor ghosts created by the holofield fell away. Talodax had not been expecting this good fortune, it was not an opportunity he would neglect.  
"Godsbane lance, vector 278, 196. Fire!" At such long ranges a lance against a holofield was rarely even worth the attempt. It would be nothing but heat and strain for a near guaranteed miss. But the cruiser was vulnerable and exposed. With the firing angle already known the lance battery struck out across ranges no new Imperial craft was capable of. Two precision strikes of burning white light cut into the eldar vessel like a butcher cutting away fat. What little armour eldar craft had boiled away like water under the heat of the strike and Talodax could see with the naked eye the fires now burning on the far away craft.

The aeldari craft had not yet replied, their weapons possessing far shorter range than those of the Shu. But all three were burning their engines hard to make up the distance, with a speed that took Talodax's breath away. He could not conceive the engineering miracles necessary to allow a cruiser to move that fast. But he knew that neither his eyes nor his sensors were lying to him.  
"Enemy craft entering standard range!" Declared one crewman. Talodax was determined to put the limping aeldari craft down. That Shadow cruiser had the biggest guns of all the eldar craft, guns that would soon be in range.  
"Plasma broadside, fire on my mark. Vector 243, 191." Even though a sensor lock had been established he was unwilling to allow the firing solution to be dictated by the cogitators, even with modified lead and spread. He trusted the techniques he had learned from the order of ruin far more than any machine. "Mark" To his horror, he watched the eldar craft bank hard against the incoming barrage, shot after shot sailed by and only a few balls of burning plasma striking it's sails for minimal damage. His mind worked furiously as he calculated the new solutions.  
"Godsbane. On my mark vector 236, 181. Mark!" If the plasma batteries were a hammer, the godsbane battery was a knife. It carved into the xenos craft, cleaving away an entire solar sail from the hull. A flurry of micro explosions to her rear signalled the detonation of secondary engines as wraithbone plate peeled away like the skin of an over ripened fruit. The fires which had gripped the ship began to engulf the craft, turning it from a sleek instrument of death into a screaming comet in the dark. It traced a line of incandescent flame across the heavens as any number of chemicals burned every colour in creation. Until all at once they stopped, not in a noble explosion, but rather in unnatural silence. Talodox knew what that meant, the Captain had vented every effected compartment into space, sacrificing who knows how many of his kin in the process. No matter what this day held the aeldari had already paid a heavy price for it.

Now it was their turn to make the Shu pay, operating at their extreme range all three vessels let loose every weapon they had. Flickering pulsar lances tore past the ship, shot after shot streaming by, the strange throbbing beams missing them only by the grace of providence. But the bent and battered shadow cruiser which led them hit home. A terrifying hail of spinning white lights impacted all along the hull of the Shu like rain. No one strike was worth much but taken together the deluge from her starcannon cluster batteries in her prow was a force to behold. Talodox had never seen the Shu's void shields overwhelmed so quickly. Array after array over loaded and collapsed, until the last few rounds struck home into the Shu's ancient armour. The sound of the impacts echoed down the halls of the titanic ship, sparks flashed into the void as the Shu's thick skin was pelted. But it held, for now.

It was at that moment that a crewman called out.  
"Torpedo launch detected!" But Talodax could already see the four vapour trails heading from the shadow cruiser straight towards his ship.  
"Deploy the flak screen!" He commanded, causing his ship's flak turrets to turn and swiftly unleash a hail of anti-aircraft fire at the streaking ordnance. The timed charges erupted into a wall of explosions and shrapnel and the vast torpedoes could scarce help but be hit. Each detonated in a burst of green fire bright enough to send unguarded eyes blind. But none reached the Shu.  
"Small craft on attack run!" Another man called out. But the Shu's turrets could not re-task quickly enough to deal with them. Eldar eagle bombers moved like mosquitoes, and easily avoided those few guns which could turn in time. Taldox watched as flashes of plasma fire blossomed across his hull, but was grateful for the report he eventually received.  
"Armour has held across the majority of the ship. Minor damage starboard side. All systems operational."  
"Broadside loaded!" Called out the chief gunnery officer.  
"Vector 221, 176. Fire!" Another series of languishing balls of spitting blue fire belched from the Shu's side heading for the damaged xeno's ship. Talodax was not willing to risk another torpedo strike. A full series of hits had the potential to cripple the Shu in a single blow. He was not willing to die this day, nor hand his Lord a broken ship. The eldar craft was limping now and could do little to avoid the full weight of the Shu's broadside other than present her nose to lessen her profile. It was not enough. Talodox watched as the aeldari prow was battered, bent, and eventually broken and the vast weight of the Shu's fire. Her entire fore section imploded in a slowly unfolding star of burning fluids, detonating munitions and screaming metal. "Godsbane, vector 221,175! Fire!" Cried Talodox, his clinical calculation now buoyed by the heat of battle, and the fury of the fray. The twin pinpricks of scorching white heart skewered deep into the ships exposed innards, tearing through system after system, and erupting from her rear in a hail of molten metal, so hot even the cold vacuum of space could not cool it quickly. With her systems so badly damaged the xenos craft could not conceal the extent of her wounds from the Shu's augurs. Talodox watched section after section loose power as the ship died. She did not explode or collapse in upon herself like a dying star. Instead she became nothing more than floating metal, a few remaining souls clutching to her for dear life. Now broken, and lifeless, the craft could no longer resist the pull of the planet below. With one eye Talodox watched his display report the restoration of his shields as the capacitors vented into space. With the other he watched the burning remnant of the aledari cruiser slide slowly out of view, and toward the planet below.

But the Shu did not go unpunished for her actions mere moments before the two remaining, smaller, cruisers tore by they both unleashed a deluge of pulsing lance fire upon the warp touched craft. These weapons, though short range, could sustain their beam for far longer than their human counterparts, their destructive power kept throbbing on and on, even threatening deep banks of void shields and burrowing into the vulnerable mental beneath. Talodax watched in muted apprehension as one shield fell, then another and just as the final array built up to its maximum capacity the fire seemed to cease. The shield had held, thank the warp. But before he could draw another breath a new torrent of light struck the craft, and the last of the shields broke once more. Aeldari lance fire melted holes through the ship's armour as easily as the Godsbane had done to them. The thick skin of an Imperial craft meant nothing against such weapons and he could feel the deck reverberating under him as the ship shook with small internal explosions. Report after report of collapsed corridors, crushed bulkheads and vaporised walls came in. But the aeldari had been unlucky and failed to compromise any key systems. Perhaps that was Arelesea's work at play, all her tinkering, modifications and redundancies coming into their own.

He made a mental note to thank her, as he watched his flak guns come around and drive off another aeldari bombing run. If they lived to see the end of this. Arelesea for her part, was busy in the bowls of the ship, managing her repair crews, dispatching them to one place or another to patch the holes caused by the aeldari. She knew there was little she could do for non-critical parts of the Shu for now, other than seal them against space and shut off any leaks. She had to reserve her attention for critical systems. But she could not help but feel a mixture of pride and pain as the Shu was put through her paces. An idle machine, for all her engineering, was a waste. True virtue was found in the execution of function, and she revelled in the Shu's brutal yet precise efficacy. But to see her ancient machinery torn and sundered was akin to watching the destruction of art. Even if she could repair it, such craft was always to be mourned.

Elsewhere crew were hastily ripping out void shield capacitors and inserting whole new ones, unwilling to wait for the arrays to vent in the face of the latest volley whilst mindless servitors clumsily ferried the now stripped components to secondary discharge stations. Aboard the bridge a flurry of officers were calibrating the augury arrays time and time again, sifting through data and feeding the results directly to Talodax. The mirage of mutually exclusive results even at this close range was a testament to aeldari technology and as deceitful as such tricks may have been Talodax could not deny their talent. To make matters worse, with this much fire in the sky, light distortion was no longer a viable option. The broadside had long since reported ready but Talodax refused to waste this close-range bombardment. But his window in which to fire was shrinking rapidly. It was the mathematical rigour of the order of ruin that he had so shamelessly imitated, which saved them. In a flash he saw a pattern, one warped by a deviant mind but a pattern none the less. His mind worked faster than he could rationally understand, performing complex equations on instinct and adrenaline. He was not fully in control of his own lips when he called out.  
"Broadside, vector 251, 151. Reduce standard spread 30 degrees. On my mark…." The room fell silent as the chief gunnery officer waited. Even the rocking blasts of explosions and the repetitive thud of flak fire seemed distant and hollow. "Mark!" He cried. Sending yet more orbs of molten blue fire into the void. The shots had barely travelled their minimum safe distance before smashing into the concealed eldar vessel. The blast was so close that cartwheeling wraithbone span into the Shu's hull, clattering off of it like hail on a roof. Just as before, the dancing mirage that was meant to fool both the eye and the augur vanished in the face of such a strong blow. Fires began to erupt along the crafts hull and she was so close now that Talodax did not even need to call out vectors for the lance. "Godsbane lance battery, fire on the heat! Mark!" No sooner had he called out his command than impaling beams of phosphorescent energy tore into the xenos craft. Scything across deck after deck, causing the aeldari craft became a rainbow display of fire to put the stars to shame. But despite the crippled craft bleeding her every vital fluid into the void, some miracle of xenos engineering allowed the craft to still move. Desperate and broken she was turning to flee, trying to hide in the Shu's rear where only her lance could strike. Were this the last foe in the sky Talodax would gladly have chased the limping beast down. But other craft still threatened him, and it was his first task to evacuate the troops below, not to hunt cruisers.

He watched the massed aeldari bombers come for another run, falling down like daggers through the storm of flack fire. Whilst some ships were plucked from the sky like flies in brief bursts of flame and others crashed into the hull like falling stars, far too many for comfort let loose their venomous load. A rippling sea of blue green fire washed over the upper surface of the Shu as the shots hit home, the rising void shields doing nothing against such charges. Even aboard the bridge Talodax could hear metal scream in agony whilst the one remaining aeldari craft struck with her lethal lance fire, only just being absorbed by the triple array the Shu boasted. Such constant overload, venting and replacing would have broken most systems by now. It was only the potent mix of archeotech quality, and dark mechanicum innovation, that had preserved them. The sensor ghost of the final craft passed beneath them.  
"Starboard broadside. Standard spread. Vector 091, 078. Mark!" Talodax had not had time to perform any complex calculations or adjust his sensors, he was simply taking advantage of the fact that the foe was so close any shot was likely to hit. A few rounds impacted against something, abruptly halting in the void and causing the dancing display of illusory light to jump randomly across the sky. But no explosions, no trail of fire or burning metal. Whatever he had struck, had stood. Little matter, one craft could not hope to…  
"New contacts!" Called out a worried voice. "Two frigates, several wings of small craft to our rear. Close range!" Talodax had no time to question their discovery, only react.  
"Port manoeuvring thrusters, 75% thrust for 4 seconds. Starboard thrusters, reciprocal burn to stop momentum at 110 degrees. On my mark…" But before he could give his order he was interrupted.  
"Torpedo launch detected, aft!"  
"Mark!" He cried, still demanding his craft turn before adding. "Main engines, emergency burn. 150% safe thrust. Upper deck thrusters, emergency burn. 150% safe thrust 20 seconds both! Mark!" A flare of fire, almost as long as the craft itself screamed from the Shu's main engines. The heat alone caused several of the incoming projectiles to detonate. But not all of them were caught in Taldoax's innovative move. Still turning, the nose of the Shu was forced down at alarming speeds. Inertia threatened to collapse the ship in her centre whilst her engines wept with the effort.

Arelesea was tearing down the Shu's immaculate corridors, her mechandendrites working like spider legs along the walls and bearing her along far faster than mere legs could. Something close to panic gripping what little of her flesh remained. She was making for the engines whilst her harsh mechanical voice barked over the vox.  
"Stop the burn! Stop the burn!" But up on the bridge, one voice called out louder than all the others.  
"Brace for impact!"


	8. Chapter 8

The air was thick with the sound of fire, so loud, so total as to send lesser men deaf. Spent shells from guns the warp would never let run dry hit the ground like rain, and at the centre of it all the maladectus fatum sent an impossible metal roar into the sky. It was the cry of a wild beast let slip from captivity after far too long. It cared nothing for the shots that glanced harmlessly off its profane body. Instead it only dug its legs into the stone before the canon at its core erupted in a single, terrible, blast. As the shot tore forward the air behind it crackled in blinding white lightning. When it hit the noise was so terrible it seemed to suck all sound into it before detonating in a cacophony so violent and discordant not even astarte's ears could fully comprehend it. Buildings shattered into little more than splinters, the flagstones under foot flash boiled into acrid vapours, and the intimidating warp hunter grav-tank that sat at the centre of it all was torn asunder in a cloud of fire and molten wraithbone.

The xenos had come prepared, with a good deal of armour and anti-tank units in an effort to deprive Arlek of what would otherwise have been a considerable advantage. The battle had slid into a tank duel. The heretical armour hunkering down in well defended positions, eldar trying to out flank them or flush them out into areas where they could be destroyed. Both sides were fighting cautiously, as neither could easily replace lost armour. But the xenos had the disadvantage of being on the offensive, which forced them to take risks Arlek and his men could exploit. The greater experience of the heretical astartes was counting as well. Most souls here, even those born of dust, had been with the legion since the great crusade. Almost 11,000 years of war would give any man a talent for battle. But the aeldari were not fools. The scorched predator which lay before Arlek, her side splayed open, which had been dragged back to safety by foul magics and that was even now being anxiously tended to, spoke of that.

The greatest risk was not the xenos own armoured assaults. But rather their teams of fire dragon aspect warriors, who would readily bring their terrible fusion weapons to bear on the legion's ancient armour and reduce it to molten metal, if allowed into position. The infantry battle was little more than cautious eldar raids trying to get their fire dragon's into position, and the men of the 15th repelling them with cold efficiency. The air was thick with the smell of iron, human blood ran across the flagstones of this town now. The sound of las fire had faded away from the din of battle as the last mortal defenders now either lay dead, or in hiding and soon to die. Their sacrifice had served its purpose. The short delay they had caused was all the astartes needed to redeploy. It had cost a heavy price in blood, but Arlek knew blood was one of the few currencies the galaxy truly valued.

But despite the brief reprieve his spire guard had bought him, he could not rest easy. The xenos outweighed him in men, guns, armour and support. His foes had the initiative and the luxury of manoeuvrability. Under any circumstances these would have been grim portents, but against a foe that was dangerous even when outnumbered, they could very well spell his doom. Arlek did not waste time wondering how he had been lured into this trap, that was a question for another time. All that mattered now was surviving it. Striding across the square he seemed careless to the danger he was exposing himself to. Shots smacked into the flagstones at his feet, others ricocheted off the mighty pauldrons of his armour with sharp, metallic cracks. But he was not as reckless as he may have seemed, preternatural sight allowed him to see where every shot would land, which ones could hurt him and which ones could not. His stride was carefully timed, and this far back not even the aeldari could put truly substantial fire on him.

He made his way into one of the more substantial buildings at the edge of the square, ignoring his men firing from the upper windows he instead pushed down into the basement, a smashed man sized webway portal reminding him of the trap still closing its jaws around him. The earth and wraithbone above him could only dull the sound of battle, not banish it entirely. But in the relative safety of this basement Arlek set his mind free of its prison of flesh. His mind drifted with the lightness of a wraith through the walls that surrounded him to soar above the field with eyes that could see through smoke and buildings. The world when viewed free from the constraints of meat and bone was different in almost every aspect, limited only by the mind's ability to understand it. To the untrained such vision was worse than blindness, but to Arlek it was possessed of a remarkable clarity and could grant a depth of understanding deeper than any sea, and with all the dangers that implied. But he was not interested in the secrets of the great ocean today, his concerns were far more material.

He could see the xenos infantry repositioning after their last failed attempt, several squads of soldiers moving about in relative safety in front of the astartes positions in an effort to distract them, and assess their defence. Similarly the xenos armour was moving in preparation for another strike. But it was what lay behind the hill to the north that concerned him. At first Arlek believed it could only have been the warp playing with his senses. But with a cold chill that ran down the memory of his spine, he knew that what he saw was no lie. A squadron of vast, floating tanks designed to kill titans sat in wait. Around them were any number of smaller vehicles and platforms sporting a huge array of long range missile weaponry, an array of walkers, assorted transports and rank after rank of jetpikes and vypers sitting idle, waiting for some unknown signal. Arlek had come to this place with the equivalent of an over strength company, expecting to fight provincial defenders, he had met an army.

But one thing was absent, something he would expect to accompany such a terrible force, that diamond like mind that had challenged him upon Aktosha. He could sense her shadow in the wind, some trace of the farseer lingered here. But nothing more than that. There were lesser psychic minds to be sure, but she was conspicuous by her absence. For an instant his mind went back to that moment on the edge of death. When everything had been striped away, was that grief, regret, compassion or pity that had clutched at his hearts? It had been powerful, both as alien and namelessly familiar as the face that had been staring back at him. Her image appeared in the currents of the warp, summoned by his thoughts as vividly as if she stood before him. Staring at him.

His hearts clenched, what was this madness? This indulgence was unworthy of even a novice. With a pulse of his mind he banished the image, scattering it back into the great ocean. Such distractions were unworthy of a warrior, and potentially lethal for a psyker. How many unnamed horrors now had a new lure to bate him when his mind was weak? He forced himself into the mid enumerations, regaining the robotic and clinical detachment in battle that his legion was famed for. Had he not done so then the flare of the missiles the eldar had just fired would have passed him by. Their target was obvious, but their volume was surprising. It was a bombardment worthy of the guard! Plummeting back into his body Arlek did not pause to adjust to the weight of his flesh once more. Instead he turned to the currents of the warp and bent them to his will, skill and strength combining to command such a weight of etheric force that light bent and broke as it passed through it. He forged this energy into a kyne shield encapsulating he and his men, one bolstered by an interlocking network of power junctions and seals derived from a dozen forgotten traditions that granted the ward far greater resilience than raw power ever could.

When the first missile hit it was like the drop of a single hailstone upon the roof, nothing but a sharp, yet small, shock. But when the storm hit their collective force threatened to rend his shield in twain, and reduce all those beneath to ash in an inferno of plasma. Arlek bent his mind to furiously restoring each point of stress and strain as it emerged, his thoughts moved like a darting mosquito from crisis point to crisis point as the missiles just kept coming. He could only hope that his foes ran out of ammunition before he made a mistake. In his basement he could not witness the marvellous display he had created above him. But to those within the dome who still had an eye that could appreciate beauty, the heavens became a broiling sea of phantasmal green fire. Super-heated plasma encapsulated them entirely, the display was as enchanting as it was savage.

Above the Shu shuddered as it was struck by the xenos torpedo, before a second blast seemed to send the whole ship lurching forward. Across every deck men and servitors were sent tumbling to the floor whilst on the bridge a man called out!  
"Engine blast! All feeds sealed!" This was why Arelesea had been tearing down the corridors before the explosion had even happened. The engine tolerances were not just there to protect against normal over stressing of the systems, but to manage battle damage as well. Too much fuel, under too much pressure, burning too hot put the risk of secondary explosions at unacceptably high levels. It was precisely that secondary explosion which was now causing the Shu to drift on manoeuvring thrusters alone.

But the Shu was anxious to remind the foe that limping was not the same as dead, her defiant machine spirit was straining to spit back at those that had dared wound it. So, when her broadside let loose upon the eldar craft that had so recently slipped beneath her once more, the Shu's guns fired with a fury beyond what mere design would allow, and with a precision born of a roaring machine's hatred. The shots hit true, each screaming ball of plasma striking like a hammer upon the elegant craft of the xenos ship, smashing and melting artistry few mortal minds could conceive of with an abandon that revelled in such desecration. Like a shark tasting blood the Shu moved in for the kill, barely needing its mortal operators to prompt the god's bane lances to fire once more. They shot out like barbed tongues, skewering into the foe and tearing apart her insides with wild glee. The eldar vessel endured in noble silence as its guts were torn out and spilled into space to join the slowly growing field of debris that would mark this place long after the guns fell silent. The display had an almost organic feel to it as the eldar cruiser was torn apart, turning into little more than a gently arcing mass borne forward by momentum alone. As the last light aboard the xenos craft died something in the metallic bowls of the Shu reverberated like an engine failing to turn over, it was low and sent a shiver down the spine of anyone who paid too close a mind to it. It was malicious, and dark. An over active imagination might even think it sounded like laughter.

But Talodax was in no mood for laughter. The aeldari frigates had deftly moved to his rear whilst any number of small craft were still approaching. The sheer weight of fighters and bombers in the sky hinted at xenos ships in the distance that were still undetected, acting as carriers but not daring to risk a direct confrontation with the Shu. Without main engines he had no chance of chasing them.  
"Manoeuvring thrusters. Port side, burn at 90% for 5.3 seconds. Starboard side reciprocal blast to cease momentum after 82 degrees!" The dancing ghosts of the two nightshade class frigates came into view as the ship turned, each unleashing a tremendous hail of star cannon fire, swiftly followed by a volley of torpedoes. The void was filled with dancing lights as the storm of pinpricks flew all around. A great many sailed wide of the lurching Shu, whilst still more were absorbed by her mighty void shield, visibly flickering under the assault. These craft lacked the firepower of their larger cousins, and were trying to overwhelm a grand cruiser that could trade shots with the deadliest craft the Imperium could produce. But their torpedoes were another matter. The eight streaking trails were as deadly as any ordnance carried by a cruiser, and were darting towards the Shu with an alien precision.

But the machine spirit was still incensed, the Shu's flack screen swatted the volley aside in a storm of fire before her broadside fired on Talodax's command in an effort to strike down the lesser ships. But he was punching at targets that were no longer there, the xenos craft pulling away hard the moment they had let loose their deadly cargo. Only for the Shu to be struck suddenly from the other side. Squadron after squadron of eldar bombers were overwhelming the Shu's already over taxed flak cover. There were more targets than there were guns, and a steady pitter patter of plasma bombs were crashing against the Shu's thick hide. But it had been a torpedo hit from specially modified strike craft that had caused the Shu to lurch so suddenly.  
"Hull breach, decks 7,8,9 section SD to SE."  
"System functionality!" Talodax demanded.  
"Unaffected!"

But down bellow, it did not feel as if her systems were unaffected. Arelesea was with her crew, deep in amongst the engine's innards. Her mechandendrites snaking between myriad pipes and cables, enacting repairs with such grace it was as if the sinister metal coils had a mind of their own. The air was thick with leaking noxious gases, and the corpses of those crew who had been to slow in reaching for their respirators littered the floor of this section, corrupted black froth seeping from lolling mouths. She could feel the Shu buck with pain underneath her as she was struck once again, the frustration building as the machine spirit longed to let loose her mighty guns against those that would dare wound her, yet knowing that her guns which could kill gods, would only hit shadows when aimed at these mosquitoes. Arelesea ran her metallic digits along a nearby wall, as if trying to comfort some wounded animal. She could feel the Shu react to her touch, reigning in her recklessness but none of her spite and hatred. Another shudder through the deck hinted at some great impact nearby and still the Shu was denied a target worthy of her guns. The aeldari plan was clear, death by decapitation had failed. Now was the time to deliver a death by a thousand cuts.

Arelesea, Arlek and Talodax had all long known that without a frigate screen any Grand Cruiser was vulnerable to small craft. That was why painstaking efforts had been taken to maximise the efficacy of her flak guns, and to fit her with many more such devices than her factory specifications had ever envisaged. The dome of fire and hurtling metal that encapsulated the Shu showed how effective these efforts had been. The ammunition expenditure of even these smaller guns when taken as a totality could readily be measured in tonnes per second. But still the aeldari were pushing their way through, with nimble craft and weight of numbers. The Shu needed something more.

Disengaging from her current task she left her team to deal with the repairs, and instead headed to the closest main terminal she could find. Its screen may have been shattered but the cogitator it had been linked to was still functional. One of her mechandentrites slid easily through the debris and connected directly into the circuitry beneath. In an instant Arelesea's mind was assaulted by a wave of super compressed binary script that was so utterly incomprehensible to most men that at best it was no more than white noise, but which more normally cause the brain to viciously haemorrhage. To her however, it was a language more precise, more elegant and more efficient than any crude speech of flesh bound tongues. But even she could not deal with an entire ship's worth of information, not as she was. So closing down every stream of information but one she sought out an idling system that seemed to be laced across the ship. Dormant, it could have been easily missed in the flurry of data produced by battle. But she knew exactly where to look, and interfaced directly as she now was, she input the activation sequence into this slumbering system.

Upon the bridge this first appeared as a power drain, reserve supplies being syphoned off from the auxiliary plasma banks and rerouted across the ship. Before suddenly a storm of light lanced out from countless miniature turrets across the surface of the Shu. Each burning needle of light was far too small to threaten any true ship. But small craft and torpedoes were another matter. Talodax knew what this was, but he had not known it was operational. It was a micro laser defence grid, a wholly automated short range defence system born out of the blasphemous union of long neglected archeotech, and profane xenos craft. As it transpired, there was good reason why Talodax had not known this system was ready for use, it was because it was not ready. A fact that Arelesea was paying for down below. Simple problems of circuitry, power and mechanics has been solved long ago. What had not been so easily fixed was the machine spirit itself. The Shu's soul was ancient and prideful, it had been forged at the dawn of humanity's rebirth. Designed to stride out across the heavens and reconquer what was lost in the name of mankind. It was born to burn xenos, and she did not suffer their alien engineering being worked into her body.

As soon as the micro defence grid was powered the Shu's spirit became painfully aware of the abomination which had been grafted onto her. To an outsider's eye the work was so subtle as to be almost unnoticeable. But to the Shu it felt like a rampant cancer that had to burned from her. Even as the micro lasers did their work, adding to the flak turrets to present a defence to drive off even the great storm of aeladri, the Shu was fighting this unwelcome intrusion. When the machine spirit could not shut off the grid, it tried to overwhelm it with an excess of power, trying to blow it out section by section, kicking like a horse trying to throw its rider. Her ancient intelligence would have succeeded were it not for Arelesea desperately inputting command after command at the speed of thought to keep the micro laser grid functional. That effort alone would have been a mind wrenching strain, her brain may have been augmented by any number of additional processors, but it was still built off of an all too human core. The sheer amount of system information she had to process and respond to in micro seconds was staggering. But worse than that, the machine spirit itself was trying to throw her out. It was like a lion tamer, that had lost control of its beast. All the confidence, training, kinship and ability in the world could not stand against claws and teeth.

At first the Shu simply tried to shut down her access, but Arelesea was ready for that. What she was not prepared for was the huge barrage of bio neural feedback that the Shu thrust upon her. The strain only built as she clung on, forcing this diabolical blight upon the ship. Outside the aeldari craft were peeling off, returning to a safe distance, now unable to harm the spitting beast. Inside Arelesea curled he head slowly back within its cowl and prized open her mouth as if it were forced by a vice. At first it seemed there was no sound, but her vocal processors had merely been pushed beyond the range of human hearing as even her machine components wailed in agony. But slowly, a terrible mechanical shriek grew in what remained of her throat. As it drifted down into the range of human hearing, it was like a blown-out speaker, projected through a dozen linked megaphones in a pitch so high it made ears bleed, and so harsh it made teeth groan.

It was not long before her body was blown back from the terminal, hitting the far wall, limp and broken. As she lay upon the deck she was somehow smaller, frail and curled up like a wounded child. A sensation ran down her face, at first she thought it was blood or oil. But as it ran over the crest of her quivering lip she could taste it for what it was. A tear, from her one remaining eye. Slowly a broken, harsh, juttering noise escaped her hood along with the smell of burnt flesh. It was a painful cross between a broken speaker and an engine failing to turn over. It was the best that her vocal processors could do, when asked to sob.

Down below Arlek's position was still engulfed in a dome of seething fire. His mind had risen into the sixth enumeration, banishing distraction, pain and the irrelevant. Maintaining the dome against such an onslaught had become an almost academic exercise. Not because it was unimportant, but because dwelling on the full force of what was occurring threatened to break his focus. Instead he allowed his mind to think of it as nothing but perverse formulae and cryptic patterns, as if he were in the great library of Tizca once more, deciphering pages no eyes had seen for thousands of years.

But this was war, and he could not truly neglect what lay beyond, and the host that threatened to snuff out his ancient existence and end his millennia long crusade. He could not know when the xenos guns would run dry, but he knew he could not hold the kyne shield forever without error. The xenos artillery must fall silent. A fragment of his mind reached out, isolated from the constant strain of calculation. Few psykers were capable of such feats, even amongst his brothers to knowingly cast a fragment of your soul away from the whole was an ability known only to the wisest, and the strongest. The sensation was a slow agony, as if the cruellest drukari were peeling away his arm and stirring every nerve to twenty times its usual sensitivity. Only the discipline of the enumerations, tempered by over ten millenia of war, allowed his mind to survive the torture without descending into madness.

In time a second Arlek Erelash was born, screaming in confusion and pain, looking for a mortal body it did not possess, staring out of eyes that did not exist, struggling to comprehend that it existed only as a thought and an echo in the warp. Voids of memory plagued it, every question fundamental to its existence was unanswered. Shadows gathered in the great ocean, sharks sensing bleeding prey. Cleaving off a portion of one's soul was a monumental task in and of itself, keeping it safe was greater still. The shade of Arlek would have been consumed in that moment, a portion of the sorcerer gone forever, had it not been for the tendril of consciousness the original Arlek was now extending between them. It allowed his shadow to see into every corner of his mind, a great risk to take at any point. But it allowed the shade to know how to survive, it told him what he was, it told him his purpose.

Like any true soul shard, the creature possessed free will, self-determination. Often time such creatures would refuse to be reunited with their originals, believing it to be their death, or that they were the superior version, only adding to the risk of such an action. But Arlek had not allowed enough of him to be torn away to allow this creature such hubris, and by sharing his memories, his shadow immediately understood the folly of such thoughts. He would complete his task, and then he would return.

Drifting towards the Maladectus Fatum the shade of Arlek issued a psychic command to the beast. To fire shot after shot after shot from its main gun straight up towards the dome. The daemon bucked at first, sensing the man that had enslaved it to his service was weak and hollow. But the shade of Arlek knew every binding command and ritual. His psychic imprint may have been faded but it was the same, that mark combined with words of power that defied mortal ears brought the howling neverborn into compliance. With each shot Arlek allowed a precisely crafted hole to emerge in the shield, enough for the shell to slip through and nothing more. But those shells would not continue their journey. The shade of Arlek held each of them still in their flight at the xenith of their ark. Every ounce of momentum, and burning demonic fury was preserved. Physics had simply been suspended in this tiny pocket of space, which was rapidly filled with a host of profane ammunition.

Once sufficient shots had been fired the shard of Arlek drifted his mind up above the field, as Arlek himself had done not long before. Casting his eye down upon the foe the soul shard could pick out every xenos missile artillery piece in unerring detail, each of the vast cobra titan killer tanks that were doubtless the next part of the offensive. The sheer amount of troops and resources that were being dedicated to this effort were as surprising to the shade of Arlek has they had been to the original. This kind of force marked a significant commitment for any craftworld, something they would not risk unless necessary for the preservation of their dying race. Arlek was determined that this significant commitment, would become a significant loss.

Once the collection of rounds was complete the shade of Arlek bent the currents of reality to twist and turn the course of each shell into impossible arcs. Eldar holofields could do little against his warpsight, each shot would strike with terrible accuracy and warp blessed power at the weakest point of every craft. This was what the shard was needed for, Arlek could not sufficiently concentrate on both complex tasks at once, particularly when they required his perception to be in two separate places simultaneously. But a fraction of him, devoid of distraction, could do the job.

With the last shell in place the shade of Arlek released the suspended bubble of un-reality, the laws of physics returning with an audible snap. Each shot hurtled down with even greater speed and force than the Maledictus Fatum was usually capable of, each and every one striking their targets simultaneously. The eruption was spectacular to behold. A sea of boiling daemon fire flashed across the foe with an incandescence akin to a star, all be it a horrendously twisted one. The eye of faith could see screaming faces formed in the currents of flame. One for each aeldari soul that was being claimed by she who thirsts, no soul stone could survive that detonation. As the explosion faded the psychic echo of the wailing xenos lingered for a few terrible moments, but the deed was done. When the smoke cleared the eldar missile batteries laid rent and broken, their cobra tanks holed through their most vital components, the bombardment was over.

With a bittersweet sense of fulfilment and resignation, the shade of Arlek allowed himself to fall back towards the ground, lamenting the fact that he could neither feel the wind rushing past him, or the warmth of the sun on his phantasmal form. Part of him wanted to resist what was coming next. But he had Arlek's wisdom, and he knew to resist this was folly. In a crescendo of psychic force, the shard of Arlek careened back into the original. The sensation struck like a blow from a thunder hammer, so much so it sent Arlek sprawling sideways upon the floor. The dome collapsed like shattered glass as Arleks mind struggled to readjust. The last memory of his psychic clone so jarred with the reality of his flesh his mind wanted to reject it, the dissonance too terrible to house in a single consciousness. The vivid memory of his own soul dying, not merely taken to the very edge of oblivion as he had been against the farseer. But crossing over that threshold, ceasing utterly to exist. The though cut like ice through his mind. It refused to be contained, but contain it he would. With a mental rigour and discipline taught only to the children of Tizca, he forced the memory into compliance, and bent the rest of his consciousness into acceptance. He had died, and he had lived. The warp was capable of far stranger things.

For a few precious moments all was still, and calm. The bombardment was over, silence reigned. But this peace, as ever, was illusory. It did not take long for the sounds of battle to reassert themselves. The barrage had ceased, but small arms fire and lesser explosions quickly filled the void. And beneath it, the rising echo of jet bike engines. With a groan of effort as he summoned up the will to press on despite his recent shock, Arlek reached out and grabbed his archeotech blade in a power armoured hand. Almost at once the power field leapt into shimmering blue light, only to flare into a seething trail of psychic fire no design could account for as Arlek rose to his feet.

Stalking out of the simple home he had been sheltering in, Arlek was every inch the image of the blue jackal that rumours about him described. His great armoured form twisted the air around him with tightly restrained psychic power yearning to be free. The jumping warp fire from his sword cast him in impossible, sinister shadows whilst the unmoving maw of his helmet seemed to twist and growl in the light. A weak mind would even see Arlek looming above the terminators he was now striding towards, but such a distortion would only have been the failings of an ill-equipped brain struggling to understand echoes of the warp that it could not comprehend.

Despite their losses the eldar were quick to exploit the shield's collapse, the whispering shriek of jet bike engines were already hurtling towards them, whilst a fresh eruption of gun fire hinted at a renewed xenos infantry assault. As the heavy weapons around him turned to the sky, to greet the airborne assault with a hail of bolter, las and plasma fire, Arlek also turned his baleful gaze to the heavens. The leading edge of the assault was picked out against the perfect sky like a flock of crows, each dot a soul striving to end him. He could have used his prescient sight to guide the aim of those around him, just as before. But he wanted the xenos to learn fear, for fear would keep them at bay more surely than bolter rounds.

Stretching out his free hand he pressed the potentialities of the warp that were swirling about him into minuscule cracks of unreality at his fingertips before releasing them in a single, cacophonous blast. For the blink of an eye the heavens fell black as staccato strikes of phosphorescent light arced from Arlek's hand like lightning. Each thirsting tendril sought out rider after rider in the aeldari host, skewering through both their flesh and their souls like a needle. Those xenos who were lucky would simply burn to ash in a single flash or die near instantly as their brains ruptured within their skulls as the only possible response to the terrible currents of the warp that surged through them. Those less fortunate would find their flesh revolting against them, mutating and twisting to the service of the gods they loathed. No matter which cruel fate chance chose to bestow upon these riders, bike after bike fell from the sky like stones, whilst those that survived pulled away in an effort to avoid a second blast.

The first bike had yet to hit the earth before Arlek turned to Rhydel.  
"Report." He said simply.  
"The xenos continue to press us hard on every front. Our positions are holding thus far, but aspect warriors are increasingly being replaced on the front by wraithguard, casualties will follow."  
"Has there been any meaningful indication of psychic presence? It appears to be entirely absent from the battle field."  
"No, no notable psyker has assaulted us my Lord."  
Arlek was forced to wonder what kind of fool would so eagerly assault a thousand sons position without proper psychic support. To do so was death more often than not, and whilst the astartes were feeling the strain the xenos casualties were becoming terrible.  
"There is something we are not seeing here brother." He reflected. "For all the faults of the aeldari, wanton stupidity is seldom one of them."

At that moment several low booms echoed through the sky above, the sound of something moving fast, punching the atmosphere. It was clear that the thousand sons' position was ultimately untenable, particularly if psykers appeared on the field, and these detonations in the upper atmosphere only added to Arlek's sense of urgency. But he would not turn tail yet. Reaching out with his mind he found Orisian.  
"Brother. How goes the search?"  
"I have yet to find a bone singer My Lord." This disappointing news was not something Arlek could accept. The vision was not a lie, he would not permit it to be.  
"Continue your efforts. You will find what we seek." Arlek's psychic command made it abundantly clear that failure would not be tolerated. That Orisian would have to bend reality to make Arlek's wish true, before Arlek would accept that there was no bone singer to be found.

But Arlek was deprived of the ability to dwell on this by the sudden emergence of a small swarm of warpspiders, interspersed with leering harlequins. The strangely bulky looking warpspiders still moved with all the grace and speed their kind was known for, only enhanced by their short-range warp jumps which allowed them to near instantly teleport themselves from point to point in the blink of an eye. Whilst the harlequins advanced with their typical flare and extravagance, a parade of bright and distracting images designed to conceal where they truly were. With no kyne shield protecting the thousand sons, it was an easy matter for these troops to punch so deep. But the wisdom of it was not so obvious. They had advanced well beyond their support, and such lightning strikes were best directed against poorly guarded rear elements or other light targets. Instead, in targeting Arlek, they were assaulting a nest of sorcerously supported terminators backed up by hellbrutes. The result was predictable, even without foresight. Psychically guided shots struck true against what would otherwise have been elusive warp spiders, whilst hails of soul reaper fire and liberal baths of warp twisted promethium had little difficulty finding the true images of the harlequins. The last sight of this brief raid was the screaming, writing form of a warpspider slowly being crushed in a hellbrute's cruel claw. The monster was dragging out the pain, making the xenos death slow and languid, so as that it's fragile mind could understand just a fraction of the monster's ceaseless torment.

The assault smelt of desperation, but it was the cause of this desperation which gave Arlek pause. A methodical, well supported and patient attack would hand the xenos victory. Why then did they persist in this? As Arlek pondered on the rhyme or reason behind the foe's uncharacteristic recklessness, a hail of burning streaks cut slowly across the sky. With his astartes eyes Arlek could easily trace the path these flaming orbs would take, they were on course to impact near the outskirts of town, a little behind the aeldari lines. Any mystery as to the cause of this sudden phenomenon was swiftly swept away as the burning and broken hull of the xenos cruiser struck down by the Shu parted the heavens and tumbled towards the earth. Its vast size making the descent seem slow, even languid. But Arlek knew it was anything but. His sorcerous sight could pick out any number of eldar lives still trapped within the ship, chunks of debris or escape craft.

"All troops take cover!" Commanded Arlek psychically to his host, whilst he worked wards of protection to erect a kyne shield over the webway gate and those troops closest to it. It would seem the aeldari had the same idea, as the sound of gunfire briefly fell away whilst every man scrambled for what shelter he could find.

The pitter patter of burning metal from smaller shards of debris went almost unnoticed, as every eye turned towards the main bulk of the cruiser falling to earth a little outside the town. It hit the ground inelegantly twisted onto its side like a flailing fish, the moment of impact ominously silent. It took one long heartbeat for the front of the shock wave to reach the town, a thundering boom to split unprotected ears, and a punch of pressure to knock the wind out of any mortal man. Behind this came a flying wall of dust and debris, boulders tossing through the air like balls of paper, flaming trees cartwheeling amongst the thick dirt like dim torches, hurtling metal hidden amongst the smoke and grit to tear through buildings like butter. The storm crashed against Arlek's kyne shield like the ocean upon a cliff, swarming over him to blot out the sun.

The raging tempest seemed as if it would last for an infinity. But in truth, it was gone almost as quickly as it came. As the dust settled the pristine xenos town was gone, replaced with a mess of broken ruins and burnt streets. Every tall building had been struck down, only the short structures had survived in any condition that came close to intact. But even they were damaged in their own way, holes blown into their sides, roofs collapsed. The lovingly tended gardens of the eldar, delicately fostering plants whose beauty and rarity were now equal to the eldar themselves, had been turned into nothing but ash. But despite the debris, the hulk of the cruiser lay largely intact upon the earth, a beached whale having breathed it's last. Eldar craftsmanship had stood the test, whatever xenos technology made up the fail safes and safety devices of their impossible engines had worked. There had been no detonation. And Arlek knew exactly what had to be done.

"Brother Sylvian. Assault the cruiser at once." There was no need to ask for clarification or confirmation. Arlek's psychic order was clear, as was the conviction behind it. "Brother Orisian. Link up with an armoured unit and follow Sylvian in. Guard his rear and secure him an exit!" Both men executed their orders promptly, leaping into action even as the undying rubricae of the thousand sons were still rising from the rubble like the immortal revenants they were. But Orisian still found time to ask.  
"And what of the bonesinger?"  
"The bonesinger is there." The vision would come to pass yet, and what ship of that size would not carry a bonesinger for essential functions and repairs? So ran Arlek's thoughts, his rationale imparted wordlessly to his brothers in his reply.

Around him Arlek could see the rest of his forces stirring to life. A predator's infernal engine roaring as it drove free from the rubble that had poured over it, whilst the Maledictus Fatum screamed in twisted metallic defiance at the heavens, despite having no mouth to do so. Meanwhile, Sylvian and his celeri were already tearing towards the crash site. Warp twisted promethium coursing through the jump packs of most of the men who flew behind him, whilst he soared on the ruinous tides of the great ocean itself. Twisted by the minds of the dark mechanicum, and the whims of the warp itself, these packs granted their users the ability of true flight, rather than the simple leaps of their loyalist kin. But for now, Sylvian and his men were hurtling no more than a meter above the ground. Little survived in the broken ground that surrounded the crash site, the earth itself was bent and torn as if by an earth quake from the force of the blast. But, in amongst the jagged protrusions of earth and scattered rocks isolated aeldari survivors were beginning to struggle to their feet. Some even had the gall to bring their weapons to bear on the charging astartes, their shots being absorbed harmlessly by the kyne shield that Sylvian projected ahead of them, only for the wave of legionaries to pass over the arrogant xenos like a swarm. Each isolated foe that dared tried to stand was rewarded with a swift and clinical decapitation as the legionnaires passed just above them, the killing blow delivered with the dispassionate precision that the legion had been so famed for over ten thousand years ago.

Sylvian and his vanguard were able to reach the stricken cruiser, laying like a freshly killed beast in its crater, with little opposition. His men poured into its open wounds like a vile infection, spreading through its broken corridors and rent halls like a plague. Those xenos who still survived within, were scattered and uncoordinated. Like their kin outside they stood little chance when confronted with almost half a tonne of ancient legionnaire, bearing down upon them with profane speed, immortal endurance, and the lessons of ten thousand years of war. The cruiser's pristine walls of white, swiftly ran red with their master's blood. Only a bonesinger, would be permitted to live.

But Sylvian did not allow himself to take part in the cold slaughter within. He, along with a small cadre of men, remained outside. He could already see brother Orisian advancing with the rest of Sylvian's ground forces and a small armoured contingent. But it was what graced the heavens, that caught his eye. The aeldari were almost as fast as he had been, swooping hawks and jet bikes were already on the way, doubtless as eager to save their kin as the 15th were to end them. Sylvian could not allow them to interfere, he knew he had to delay their arrival until Orisian could come up. There was only one way to do that. A single psychic word of command to his cadre of celeri sent them into the sky as one. Jetpacks burning with an impossible flame as they soared toward their foe. As sylvian flew, with only the might of his mind to power him, he could almost feel the wind rushing against his skin through the ceramite. The lush red hair to rival his fathers, that sprang from the back of his helm seemed to burn with etheric power, the arcane runes with adorned his armour all shone with profane light, his cape billowed, and the feathers around his shoulders were now akin to impossibly radiant cathedral glass. He was magnificent, shining in the sky like a dawning star. His blade carved clean through the first jet bike to try and pass him, the second was struck down by a blast of warpfire. Those swooping hawks unfortunate enough to be within striking distance soon found themselves the victim of Sylvian's modified monofilament blasts, tearing through the xenos with the same sharp agony they had inflicted on countless others. The aspect warriors were ill-suited for up-close combat, and sought to put more distance between themselves and the unsettlingly quiet astartes, who could no longer even grunt with effort like their flesh bound kin. But no matter how far they flew, the celeri, were always at their heels, cutting the hawks down if they ever made even the slightest mistake.

The jet bikes did little better. They may have had greater speed, but the half second of sheer surprise that their pilots experienced when an astartes landed upon their craft, was all the legionaries needed to gut their foes, and leap to their next victim. The warp perpetually replenished their fuel, as it did their ammunition, and it was only their comparatively small numbers that allowed any of the xenos to slip through. But it was too few to make a difference. Down bellow Orisian was already establishing a perimeter around the crashed ship, allowing the rest of Sylvian's men to go about their business unimpeded. Beneath his corvus pattern helm a twisted, spiteful, malicious, confident and self-satisfied smile graced his face as he surveyed the carnage. But amongst the flying metal, dancing flame and arcing blood, he saw something glisten.

In a heat beat that shine was upon him, what had been light reflecting off of a force field was now the war host's Autarch gliding through the debris on resplendent wings of ivory white. Sylvian's reaction was simple, rounding on this new foe he bent the warp around him and hurtled towards the xenos commander at full force. Each combatant darting through the maelstrom of battle with an almost insulting ease before colliding with such force that a kaleidoscope of colour detonated in the sky, as xenos craftsmanship met warp born power. When the light faded the two were already locked in combat, dancing around one another in the sky with an unnatural grace. It was far from uncommon to see the xenos move with a sickening beauty. But to witness an astartes, clad in armour to rival a tanks, move with the same surreal grace, was equal parts offensive and enchanting. The pair danced, pirouette and faint, leap and lunge, blending seamlessly together. Many a man who had stood against Sylvian were near instantly felled by his monofilament surprises. But the autarch was used to such sharp-tongued and subtle strikes, his alien eye able to pick them out with the same ease as steel.

Sylvian lacked Arlek's ability to gaze with worrying clarity into the immediate future, and the mind of this xenos was protected enough through borrowed wards and talismans to prevent Sylvian from reading his precise thoughts so easily. Perhaps, with effort, he could have succeeded even in the midst of battle. But Sylvian had no desire to. Settled as he was in the 2nd enumeration every moment of the battle, every little sensation, was bent to its greatest height. A challenge, a duel worthy of noting, was worth savouring. To end it through cheap tricks would be a disservice. That was why it was a smile that graced Sylvian's face as the autarch's blade slid past a mere millimetre away from his helm, rather than a look of concern.

With a great upstroke, that blended seamlessly into a withdrawing cartwheel in the sky, Sylvian brought his glowing blade into terrible contact with the Autarch's force field once more. Subtly manipulating the currents of energy that flowed from his sword Sylvian was able to cause the xenos' defence to overload, sending a hundred hairline cracks across the strange translucent sheen that protected the eldar, before it shattered like glass in a rain of cascading colour. But the xenos was not fazed by the loss of his ward, without hesitation the alien was upon Sylvian once more, charging forward into a gap that simply was not there, locking swords in a contest of strength, eyes mere inches from each other. Both men's faces were inscrutable beneath their helmets, but Sylvian did not need to see the expression on the enemy commander to know that the cold arrogance of his kind had fallen away, distain had been replaced by hatred, and that leant this battle a whole new, delectable, flavour.

No eldar could hope to triumph against even a simple astartes in a contest of strength. And it was with great relish that Sylvian slowly forced his foe's sword down, dragging this moment out for far longer than he had to before exploding forward with stunning force and speed. The kill was a moment away, he could taste it, when suddenly his foe was gone. Sylvain was charging into nothing but empty air, only a brief reflection of light allowed him to see what had become of his foe. With a speed not even this xeno should have been capable of, the Autarch had slid beneath Sylvian, completely past his guard, and was now driving his blade up towards Sylvian's abdomen.

Turning his blade about Sylvian used one hand to arc his blade across his torso, knocking the attack aside at the last possible moment, the tip of the eldar's blade cutting a thin line into his armour in a shower of dull sparks. But Sylvian's other hand shot out to grab the Autarch's wing as it sailed beneath him. Clasping it firmly in his iron grip Sylvian bent and warped the wraithbone of its spine, feathers tumbling from the sky as they lost their mooring. Lashing backwards with his foot he planted his boot in the Autarch's shoulder and heaved. His foe struggled, but with a crack akin to the shattering of a leg, one of the eldar's wings was wrenched free from his suit. In a heartbeat the xenos began to tumble towards the ground, flapping, flailing, desperately trying to right himself like a broken bird.

But like a broken bird his descent was inevitable. Sylvian hung in the air above him for a time, watching him fumble and fail in a manner seldom seen amongst the aeldari. The falling Autarch was suddenly nothing more than human, a disappointment. With an unerring eye and unnatural force Sylvian cast his blade from his hand like a knife, hurtling it dead straight towards his foe. Unable to control his flight the eldar was helpless to resist as the sword pierced his chest, driving down to the hilt and erupting from his back before lancing into the ground, impaling the xenos unceremoniously upon a small hillock. As he struck the ground there seemed to be a moment's lull in the battle, the loss of the Autarch rippling out across the field. This artificial quiet persisted as Sylvian's blade slowly drew back, letting the eldar collapse into an undignified heap upon the ground, before his sword whistled back through the sky and into its master's grip once more. In a final great arc, fuelled by his victory and the satisfaction that came with it, Sylvian span around casting a wave of terrible psychic force from his blade. Rhydel and Arlek both looked up at the needless pageantry with concern, but neither could deny the results. A wave of purple and orange fire ripped out from the psyker, washing harmlessly of his brothers of the 15th, but careening into the aeldari with devastating force. Jet bikes and aspect warriors alike tumbled from the sky, whilst those more fortunate and more sensible fled.

On the ground the eldar offensive to retake the fallen ship had stalled, without support from the sky or the leadership of the Autarch, they had hesitated and lost the initiative. Those few lacklustre attempts the lower level commanders made were swiftly repulsed by Orisian's ground troops that had now secured the perimeter. This allowed those celeri within the ship to quickly search its every nook and cranny. The minutes went by in anxious anticipation. Only Arlek seemed to remain certain, but a part of him knew that past experience meant he had no right to be. Since his ascension from the ranks of the mundane and human, and into the honoured astartes, he had been promised a hundred paths to salvation. Every one had failed. So, when the psychic call went out, that the bonesinger had been found, he did not allow elation to take his hearts.  
"Secure the bonesinger, bring them to the town square. All troops, fall back on the town square, prepare for withdrawal." Switching to the vox Arlek then hailed the Shu in orbit.  
"Lord Erelash to the Shu. Have you cleared the sky? We require urgent extraction."

But in the bridge of the Shu Talodax was watching wing after wing of eldar fighter craft fly around the Shu, beyond the range of her guns, making for the planet below. Whilst a fresh wave of elusive sensor contacts indicated a new assault on the Shu itself was imminent.  
"My Lord. The skies are not clear. Enemy reinforcements have been substantial. We have driven off an entire battle group, but there seem to be fresh contacts. Enemy small craft have evaded us and now control the sky between us and the ground. Any extraction craft we send will be shot down."

Arlek's options were rapidly narrowing. With no small craft coming the only other way to reach the Shu was through a large-scale warp insertion. Even small-scale efforts were incredibly risky, doubly so when translating into a small, cramped environment like a ship. But such shifts were impossible whilst the Shu's void shields remained active, and he dare not risk dropping them even briefly. This was why he had readied the virus bomb, as a last-ditch card to force his foes to withdraw or suffer annihilation. But without the Autarch would they have been coordinated enough to accept the ultimatum, to respect a truce?

But part of him knew that these thoughts were just an intellectual cover for something much less reasonable, and much more powerful. Looking out across the broken buildings, and the pristine planet beyond his mind went back to the broken crone world of Aktosha. Such beauty, such triumphs of technology and art, a precious culture and yet more precious knowledge, gone. Burned away in a single act of callus destruction along with countless shining souls. The eldar, in their hubris and arrogance had brought that destruction upon themselves, and perhaps it was justice. But it would take a fool not to see in the eldar's plight something of the 15ths as well. So much lost, so few left. The thousand sons had barely any hope or future remaining, and Arlek was often brought to despair that the thing that called itself his father seemed determined to cast them ever deeper into the abyss. Compared to the 15th the eldar had an abundance of hope and opportunity, and this world was just one such hope. He thought what a place like this, free of the corruption of chaos, pure and untouched would mean to his brothers, a chance to start again. Meanwhile, the eldar and the thousand sons engaged in pointless battles that served only to wound one another, fuelling future conflict and achieving nothing. Yvraine's mockery in the webway was just the latest example. Something resembling peace, or even just a temporary truce, always appeared impossible, and Arlek knew he was no stranger to this way of thinking.

But in that moment of battle with the farseer, where his soul had almost collapsed, he had seen something in her own disintegrating face. What was it? The man who could speak countless dead languages found himself at a loss for words. There was no chance to truly scrutinise the branching paths of the future here, battle would demand too much of his focus. But he knew there was no chance of changing fate without the unexpected, and without risk. So it was, that he chose to exercise the rarest of all traits in these dark times.  
"Lord Erelash to the Shu, retreat into the warp, make good your escape and proceed to rally point Epsilon, then await further orders."  
"My Lord?" Came back the beginning of Talodax's inevitable query.  
"You have your order's Captain, execute them." Then, turning to Rhydel he continued in sombre tones. "Unseal the webway gate, we shall retreat into it." He had chosen to exercise mercy.

The pulse of doubt that Rhydel allowed to seep from his mind was not unexpected, and Arlek shared in his hesitancy. There were a great many ways this could go wrong, both now and in the distant future. But this was the only way to ensure the planet would survive, and ensure he was not forced into a corner where he would have to fail to carry out a threat. Better that the threat never be made. But despite his doubts, Rhydel obeyed like the good soldier he was. Undoing his work with the same deliberate methods he had used to bind the portal.

A strange sheen sparked into life between the pillars of the webway gate as the ancient device stirred once more. The near imperceptible hum of its activation was easy to miss at the best of times, but a new sound from the sky drowned it out altogether. The distinct whistle of eldar engines, closing fast. Different in tone and pitch to any heard before. Arlek did not need to look to the sky to know what they were. These were the star fighters, come to bomb his positions into oblivion.  
"Sylvian. Take the Maldectus Fatum and secure the other side of the portal. Brother Rhydel, rear guard action. Orisian, coordinate all other troops through the portal. No vehicle, no brother no matter how broken, is to be left behind!" The urgency was obvious and no man dared pause to debate these orders.

Sylvian's force was already withdrawing from the wreck of the aeldari cruiser, and it was not long before they streamed into the portal with the roar of burning promethium, his ground troops running along behind. The great daemon engine of the Maledectus Fatum was more reluctant to depart the field. Though the bombers above had yet to come within range, and the xenos ground troops were only just beginning to reorganise, the thirsting monster beneath the metal could taste the approaching slaughter. The beast's imprisonment had driven it to madness long ago, lusting after the momentary release that brutal combat brought it. No matter the wisdom of the fight the infernal machine longed for the fray. It was only the psychic force of it's jailor that bent the beast into compliance. Screaming at the sky with the wail of tortured metal the monster followed on into the webway.

A pulse of thought from Sylvian told all those present that the other side was secure, and Orisian wasted no time in herding the rest of the force through the portal. Arlek looked on with concern at the small army that was paraded past him. The webway was not a stranger to the thousand sons. In recent years they had tread its corridors many times and plundered knowledge allowed them to know much of it's course. Ahriman himself knew it's every twist and turn, if the rumours were to be believed. But no one could deny, it was the eldar's creation and their territory, and he was leading his force straight into it.

And what of his force? As it went by Arlek assessed the damage his men had taken. He had come here with a force to rival the great companies of old in size, enhanced by arcane might. Much of it was still as it was. But he could not ignore those vehicles that rolled past him with torn armour and broken guns. Some had been damaged so badly that any other force would count them lost and abandon them, moving only because a sorcerer willed them to weightlessness, and levitated their dead hulls past. More concerning were his unmoving brothers, their lifeless armour stacked like rag dolls atop a tank or piled into the passenger compartment of a land raider. He rated his force as still being combat effective, but to pretend they had not been wounded was farcical. The analytical side of his mind was concerned by these casualties. Though his losses were not yet great, in the webway replenishing his numbers would be near impossible, and he had no idea how long he would have to last. But his hearts clenched at every inanimate suit of armour that went by. With his recent failure to resurrect the husk of his comrade, the thought did not escape him that every fallen brother might be lost forever, unable to reclaim even the shades of their souls necessary to drive their shells. Such a development would be devastating strategically, but it would be so much more than that. It would be the beginning, to the end of everything.

As the eldar above hurtled down Rhydel erected a kyne shield above them, just as the shots struck home, detonating above their heads. Compared to the earlier bombardment this was scattered, and light. But it was also just the beginning. In the ruins at the edge of the square eldar warriors began to emerge, swiftly supressed by withering fire from the terminators of the scarab occult. Warp twisted inferno shells smashing through the xenos' cover may have been enough to hold them back for now. But the eldar still had a good force left, as their armour drew up terminators and hell brutes would not be enough to hold the enemy back.

Orisian's last few men moved with urgency through the fire, armoured boots pounding with a pace like a thundering train, sorcerously enhanced ceramite enduring what could not be evaded. Whilst up above the Shu was making a similar withdrawal. Her guns still bellowed their defiance, her shields and hide persisting seemingly out of spite. But that battle was turning against them, and with the troops below making for the webway, there was no longer any purpose in remaining. Talodax watched with a level expression as a fresh flurry of strikes rippled against the Shu's upper hull, a flash of flame briefly erupting into the void as the deck shook beneath his polished boots.  
"The navigator reports ready!" Called out one crewman.  
"Activate the geller field, deploy the screens. Activate the warp engines!" As the great shield ground closed over the bridge's view screen Talodax could see a single torpedo slip past the Shu's furious flack screen and strike her prow with a tremendous blast that reverberated down her over 7-kilometre-long hull. The bridge rattled with the impact just as the view screen slid home and the air itself took on a strange, electric tinge as the warp drive span into life.

Lesser impacts struck the ship as a crewman counted down the time until their jump. The blows grew in both frequency and intensity, the foe doubtless realising that this was their last chance to strike the Shu down. But this grand cruiser had survived ten thousand years of war and hate, it would not fail today. As the countdown hit zero Talodax felt that strange sensation run through his body that not even a geller field could banish, the sense that he was in two places at once, that for a brief moment two worlds existed, seconds apart in time. Before converging back into a single moment as the Shu passed over the threshold into the great ocean, and from this reality.

Bellow the last of the main force had crossed over into the webway, and the scarab occult were mounting a phased withdrawal as the eldar pressed harder and harder. Arlek was amongst these most resolute of his kin, pistol in hand, firing at target after target after target with an inhuman eye. Shots smashed into the flagstones around him, splinters of stone bouncing off of his armour like hail. Blows struck against his mighty pauldrons, carving shallow lines into them as the rounds deflected off of their sloped surface. The urge to lash out with infernal fire was strong, but the cold reason of the enumerations told him to reserve his power for the ever-greater pounding that was coming from the sky.

Slowly he, Rhydel and the last of the terminators walked backwards into the webway. Out of one crisis, and into the next. Rhydel needed no order to start sealing the portal once more. When Arlek took his armoured boot off of the field, he left behind him a broken land. He may have spared its future. But the ground was torn where the cruiser had struck and the nearby forest had begun to burn. A town was rubble, it's streets and countryside choked with dead, the hopes and lives of those who lived here as broken as their homes. Countless defenders of a noble and dying race had bled out their last on this land, the potential of their remarkable souls to be forever unrealised, wasted. Above Arelesea lay in a twitching, weeping ball, her servos misfiring, her steel throat unable to articulate the pain that rang through her body, and grief at the machine spirit's ire. Whilst on the surface an entire company of loyal spire guard lay dead, their blood mingling with the fallen xenos defenders of this world without any shade of the prejudice both forces showed in life. Over five hundred souls that Arlek had sacrificed in a single command. Souls that he now left behind as both he, and the Shu, made good their escapes.


End file.
